It awakened long-distant memories. It reminded him of work, of long Sundays, of croissants, of Paris. His mouth watered in automatic response to the rich aroma and he licked his cracked lips in anticipation – an old habit.
He sat up, catching his breath as shards of pain arrowed across his chest. He lifted his shirt and in the one shaft of light piercing the darkness from a hole in the roof, he could see a large shadow hovering over his ribs – a bruise. He touched its dark centre, lifted his fingers to his mouth, tasted blood and felt grit on the end of his tongue. Recoiling, he spat, trying to clear his mouth of the metallic tang.
The coffee. He groped in the gloom, following his sense of smell. His fingers found a plastic cup. He grasped it in both hands, inhaling the glorious, comforting smell before swallowing, desperate to lubricate his dry mouth and throat. It was proper coffee, not instant. Someone had good taste, and time to spare to brew it. Continue reading “The Captives”
Freya Writes... 