Flash Fiction: "I'll bring you the storm."

[wolven7]

It seemed to eat away at the filigree of rust on the edge of the bed frame, so that was good. Every time she woke up in the darkened cell—no windows for fresh light or air—she concentrated on two things: Reminding herself who she was and why she was here, and getting out. For that last, she'd need some things.

She was killing time looking for weak spots and cracks in the walls and it still amused her that none of the corners added up to ninety degrees. It meant they were remembering other escapes, listening to the myths she'd spread. She was pushing at the worn-down spot on the furniture, again, when she heard someone coming down the hallway. Again, the disorienting harsh light shining in her eyes. Again the temptation to just rush her captors. But she still had bruises and burns from the first time, so better to wait for them to disappear and use the food they left.

They never remembered all she knew; what she was making from her meals could wear strong metal down to a fine edge. And with a bit of blood and the right words, she could bring down the tempest.
©Damien Williams. All Rights.
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This one is from unknownbinaries' prompts.

And that's the last one, for tonight. I am super tired, and need to go drink more water and go the fuck to bed.

Good night.