Under the immense pressure of the hemp ropes, their skin rapidly turned a grotesque and horrifying shade of reddish-purple.
It was the desperate mark left by life struggling in agony.
The young people were terrified beyond measure, their eyes wide and round,
filled with a fear of death and a refusal to accept their fate.
Instinctively, their hands flew wildly to their own necks,
trying with their last ounce of strength to undo these sudden, deadly shackles.
Their fingers desperately clawed and tore at the rough, cold hemp ropes.
Their fingernails broke from the force, and thin trails of blood instantly seeped from their torn fingertips.
The crimson blood trickled slowly down the ropes, dripping onto the ground below,
blossoming into desperate flowers of red.
But no matter how they struggled,
the ropes seemed to be held tight by the Death God himself, pulling ever tighter, impossible to move even an inch.
Air—that ubiquitous source of life that people hardly ever noticed—
