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Prismatic light paints angled stripes along two walls and a floor corner, beautiful but wince inducing to long-closed eyes.  She struggles re-entering the world of light, eyelids combating even a squint.

Heather rises onto forearms, manages an awkward crawl forward, and escapes the rainbow.  A splotch of puddled moisture dampens her tattered clothing.  To the opposite wall she worms, her back finding its ease against the cool cement block.  Muscles used to flip her body throb in rebellion, but success helps vision, granting a modicum of shadowed relief.

She exercises her eyes, valuing eyesight as a needed complement to hearing.  She hears fumbled rattles and echoing clangs in the distance, moving closer.

Effort and time worked.  Tear ducts moistened adjusting eyes, restoring functionality.  What she sees dismays Heather.  Besides the surreal enchantment of a diffused rainbow, mould feasts on the bedewed grey floor, ceiling, and walls.  In the two-foot square overhead opening, dirty polarised glass refracts light into the prism.  A slimy metal door of the same grey colour boasts a tiny square portal, its glass smudged, and a rectangular trap door further down.

The sounds approach in an intermittent march, each noisy stop a worried encounter for another like Heather.  The door workings engage and the slot squeaks open.  A tray slides through.  A basal voice shouts in a language not understood, but Heather guesses the meaning.

One leg won’t support, so Heather transports herself by three-legged crawl.  Flipping onto her ass, she accepts the tray and watches the slot shut and lock.

Slop.  Brown rancid soup and green-splotched, hardened bread sits on the tray.  Heather scrapes the bread green into a handheld powdered aggregate, awaiting their return.

Slot unlocks and opens.  Mouth positions behind hand, slot-aimed.  Eyes peer close, curious over no returning tray.

An exhale sprays green.

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