She waited alone in the train station.
The seemingly limitless white circular walls entrapped her there with the darkness of the tunnel and the rapidness of her thoughts. Her feverish mind raced and screamed in its bone prison as the singular light flickered and twitched like some mad dying creature, casting only ghostly and inconsistent artificial flames on the cracked and vandalized tiles of the mud caked floor.
No wind disturbed her already matted and unbrushed hair. No whisper of breeze tugged at her unwashed dress or played with her chapped and bloody nose. No cold song nipped at her small ears.
All was still.
All was quiet.
Yet the screaming continued in the beaten girl's skull, loud enough to shake the entire bleak train station, breeding a purgatory of chaos and trembling oblivion among the aggressive memories of her vicious mind.
The shaking, however commanding, did not drown out the movement of time. The girl felt its rushing, sharp edges wrapping around her slim body like a sheet, suffocating and digging apart the muscles underneath her abused skin like starving cockroaches, crawling, slipping, biting in her organs, scratching her bones and feeding off of her thick, corn syrup blood. The future suddenly bled into the present, the present into the past, until all of her memories and daydreams were molded together like a jagged, dull heap of scrap metal.
That was all she was reduced to in the end. Scrap metal. Something easily shaped and contorted, the unwanted leftovers from something not very important to begin with. This, like the passage of time, was utterly palpable. She felt her insignificance, her malleability, in the chill of the air, smelled it wrapped up with the scent of blood and garbage emanating from the dark corners of the train station, and touched it where the brutal wind whipped against her face and beat her crooked spine.