Word therapy is a lovely thing. I can delve into myself and pull something out I didn't necessarily realize was there. Sometimes it's a glimmer of happiness. Other times, it's a flash of despair. But no matter the end result, I'll feel better for freeing whatever emerges. Read on for the result.

     Looking up at the sky seared the inside of my eyeballs. I tried lifting a hand to shade my eyes but received an electric jolt at wrists I couldn't see. The pain made me shudder, resulting in barely audible tearing then sucking sounds behind me. The nerve endings in my wrists exploded, and bile filled my mouth.

     I spat. Fear bubbled up inside me, and I closed my eyes. When I'd worked up the courage to open them again, I realized I was on my side in the middle of a patch of sandy ground. My ankles were bound with braided rope, which I figured was the same thing tethering my wrists behind me. 

     Leading away from me, there was a small foot trail edged by tall weeds, scrub brush, and saw palmettos. A smattering of shortleaf pines framed the smaller brush, and the sun shone through in glimmering rays. Through the dense foliage, I could hear the faint wine of dirtbikes in the distance.

     The taste of bile clung to my fissured and flaking lips. I tried to moisten them, but nothing was there. My mouth was as dry as the sand I lay upon. 

     I dipped in and out of conscious as the sunlight sunk lower and lower in my pine-filled horizon. Nightfall came, and sleep snared me.