I don’t know how long I was in that hole of a dungeon.

The chains had begun biting at my wrists, chafing against my skin and creating unwanted and painful friction. Once or twice, I thought I felt something trickle down my fingers.

I could hear the plop of whatever it was on the dungeon floor.

It was so quiet I could hear every drop that fell from my hands – water dripped slowly from the ceiling – sometimes, the cold liquid landed on my head and rolled down in beads over my scalp, ending in little lobs that hung on every hair end.

In short, I was soaked.

Hunger seemed to melt into the background.

I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten.

A faint buzz of a memory – Mama Rizzo’s pasta – came to me in a haze. I don’t know whether I became delirious or not; my thoughts were in fair order, although I couldn’t seem to group them together sensibly.

Fatigue pricked at my body, tranquilizing me and sending me into a half lull.

Succumbing to the feeling, I fell into a tentative slumber.

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