Dana Quell

She could feel every terrifying thing being done to her.

She had seen and heard everything they had done since they had found her prone in her apartment -- well, had seen everything up until they forced her eyelids closed with gloved hands, and from there on in she had to rely on her keen hearing and her sense of touch to discover what they were doing.

She had heard the man who had come to her after Jon, the man who had shut her eyes to the world. "It her?" It was the first time he had spoken, but she had still known, could hear the same roughness at the edges of his voice that was evident in the edges of his fingers.

"Yes." She had wanted to snap her eyelids open at the sound of Jon's voice, but they were too heavy, too still, and the sadness in his reply would have made her close them again slowly anyway.

Soon after that, they had plucked her from where she lay and brought her to this place, this locale where the atmosphere hung massive with strange smells and slick metal surfaces, where nothing they had said or done before seemed to frighten her half so much as just being captive here.

After all, here she would feel every little thing done magnified by the hard, thin metals.

Her limbs feeling like dead weights in an ocean of dark sound, she had felt the first twinges of humiliation as they stripped her of her clothes. She had felt the cold, rubbery sense of detached fingers efficiently roving over her body, examining a bruise here, an old scar there. She had felt the first tender nibble of the knife as it slid effortlessly into her skin, parting the seas of once pink-piglet flesh and capillaries to leave behind a neat line of blood and viscera. She had felt a pair of gloves lift out her heart and imagined it being weighed on a scale against a feather, Egyptian-fashion.
And afterwards, she had felt a pervasive loneliness seeping through the plastic wrappings they had left her, and knew those hands had not cared. She thought of Jon, and how if it had been his hands they might not have been gloved. How if it had been his hands her heart might have been lighter than a quill, and she might not have been denied freedom of the spirit.

Her heart was heavy, and she could feel it.