Here's a little practice flash fiction, inspired by The Write Practice's article "How to Paint a Scene with Words" which can be found >here.< I hope you enjoy it!
The room is small, but it seems even smaller to the boy in the chair. His wrists are raw from the constant struggling against his bindings, yet he doesn’t stop. There is little light in the room, only a small streak from underneath the iron door to his left. A chamber pot sits in the corner, clouding the area with a ghastly scent that never fades.
The boy’s black, shaggy hair flops into his face, wild and overgrown due to his time in the cell. He jerks his head back and the strands fall back in place. His silver eyes glare at the door, somehow still shining with courage. A large, fresh wound stretches across his cheek. The blood drips from his chin to his bare chest and torn jeans, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His front is already smeared with drying blood anyway.
The red from his broken nose slips onto his lips. He licks them gratefully, hoping for more. Despite the rusty taste, it had been his only sustenance for the past three days.
He begins to jerk again, hoping to at least break one of the chair’s wooden legs, but it’s no use. The backs of his legs are covered with so many splinters that he can’t detect each certain prick of pain. It’s one long, fiery wall on each side, and he’s sure they’re infected beyond reason.
With a large creak like nails on chalkboard, the door opens, painting the teenager with such bright light that he has to close his eyes. When they adjust, he is able to look up into the face before him.
The face of his lover. The face of his enemy.
Any thoughts or critiques?