Shara - Angel of Torment (creative writing)

Hey everyone, this one just came to me this morning. It's my first text of this kind. Hope you'll enjoy!

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Shara opened her eyes. Her body had recovered from the most recent exhaustion. She was still hanging by her wrists from the ceiling. With her consciousness returning so did the pain that was flooding her arms. Her neck was stiff and powerless. So she could not turn her head and look if one of the men and women, her many tormentors was still present in the room. All she could see was the little beam of light that stole itself from under the door into the room in which she was kept. A secret witness of her plight. The beam gave her the light she needed to cling to the here and now. Through this faintest of a glow she was able to distinguish between the nightmare of the world with her eyes open and the visitations of madness in the world with her eyes closed.
All she was able to feel besides pain was relief to be awake. The pain in her arms was at this time greater than any pain from any of the numerous wounds, welts and scars she had been afflicted with, and it was clouding her thoughts. But in her dreams it was far worse. In her dreams she didn’t just relive endless reruns of her tortures. Her head seemed to take much more delight in collecting all the experiences into one, potentiate them and thrust them over and over and over again through her whole body and soul. Interrupted only by seemingly endless moments of agony. The thought of taking the last breath and filling your lungs with fear. Fear of death. And after that, suddenly the condensed stream of all her tortures so far bursting through her body again and again.
Yes, Shara was relieved to be awake. It meant she was still alive. It meant they could only do as much to her as she was capable to perceive. Her real tormentors were after all human and not that demonic grimace of pain and fear and misery that was rehashing her soul in her dreams.
Her eyes clung to a syringe she now was able to make out in the dim light. The only object on the floor. The only thing that contrasted with the grey monotone concrete. It gave her the opportunity to not only distinguish between opened and closed eyes, but also to assign her conscious mind a position in the physical world. A rare interaction of her mind and reality.
She was all too familiar with this game by now. If she would wake up on her own, before someone was “taking care” of her again, she always was given a glimpse of the future and time to think about what undeniably would happen. Because whenever she had awoken like this, the object on the ground would at the return of her tormentors become the main protagonist in the next act of her slow death.
Shara knew she was going to die here. But still she would never give up her will to live. She was awaiting their next move already. The renewed pain would give her strength to rise up against her failing body and scream loudly. Out of anger, out of spite and later on again to let out the suffering and fear. But the fear also gave her the feeling of wanting to be alive and most importantly it told her that she WAS still alive. She believed that this need of the pain and fear to nourish her rebellion was what had kept her from turning completely insane so far. There was still a difference between dreaming and that what she perceived as reality.
Shara’s eyes did not move from the syringe. She knew it was futile to fight against the restraints and that merely trying to look around, or move in any way would only be answered by her body with more pain shooting through her. She had learned from the futility and hopelessness of earlier trials. So instead of satisfying her curiosity or trying to flee she used the few clear thoughts she had for three things.
First:
“breath, girl!” she told herself. And though it was though she made herself drew a long deep breath. Und than another. And another. She concentrated all her thoughts and being into the last part of her body that still seemed interested in her survival. Her lungs, sucking again and again for every ounce of life. She would sit inside her lungs surrounded by O2. Energy. Life. The pain, the fear. All that was in the surrounding body. A prison enclosing her refuge. Trying to get in. Yet being kept alive by this very place of resistance.
When she started to feel a little save in the slow rocking of her deep breaths, when she felt how her lungs was soothing her racing heart to a slower, steadier rhythm she felt comfortable enough for step two.
The Syringe… If it really was one. She was finally focused enough to realize it actually was a little too big to give injections with it. She began to think about what would be the worst thing possible that they could do to her with this object. This was actually what they wanted to force her to do, by leaving her alone with it. But she recently had managed to turn things in her favor....