All the blades had been painted to match the handle. Even as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she was still constricted by the pitch black chrysalis.  Stuck at the entrance, frozen, she waited for a light, a door, a window, any grace to come her way. She stood stolid, resigned to a sudden phlegmatic state waiting for someone to open the door and tell her it’s a joke, to tell her it’s fine, to wake her up. She couldn’t even pinch herself. She couldn’t catch her breath. She couldn’t move.  Frozen in a final quiver, she realized she couldn’t discern the difference between a thousand knives pointing at her and the one handle she was supposed to grab. Like the doe letting paralysis sheathe her before the first arrow hit, she made no move when the bomb dropped.

 

 

 

(A peek. )

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