Anne Rice - v1, Lasher

He knelt by the tub he was singing again looking at

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Unformatted text preview: empty cube of a room. Sterile, white, it flashed against her eyelids. She thought, Michael. She said his name in the darkness, "Mi- chael," and tried to picture him, to bring him up like an image on the computer of her mind. Michael, the archangel. She lay still, trying not to fight, to struggle, to tense, to scream. Just lie as if it were her choice to be on the filthy bed, her hands chained with loops of plastic tape to the ends of the headboard. She had given up all deliberate efforts to break the tape, either with her own physical strength or with the power of her mind-a power she knew could work fatal results upon the soft tissue inside the human frame. But late last night, she had managed to free her left ankle. She wasn't sure why. She'd managed to slip it loose from the encircling tape, which had become a thick ill-fitted cuff. And with that foot free she had, over the long hours of the night, managed to shift her position several times, and to slowly drag loose the top she...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.

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