Engulfed in the decrepit tomb, the crimson beads appeared across her forearm with nails stained red.

The claustrophobic space incapacitating her made her unable to stop the pool of ruby liquid from growing, the back of her shirt dampening and she was alone.

She had solidified. She walked the halls with a scowl painted on her face, eyes glazed over and slightly darkened.

Sometimes when the room was quiet and dim and those warm words soaked into her skin, you could hear the distant, almost silent, shatter of glass and see the pin-pricks of tears making way.

She felt more imprisoned by their stares than the confines of the wrenched tomb, silently demonstrating their fears weren’t fabricated with pleas etched into the shape of their eyebrows.

The infuriated stance was artificial, her reality was soft smiles screaming loud, fierce odes towards the people closest to her with such intamicy and intensity she filled a room with her presence.

Palms connect, unable to let go because she is anchored to the floor, her skin clings to another because if not she will float away.