Within A.R.M.M.’s Reach

She turned over, wincing as she buried her face deeper into the pillow. Suffocation would be welcome. She tried to lift her head. A deep and slamming blow came from nowhere, rendering her a withering, and screeching mess.

He was hovering and waiting. If she so much as moved an inch, he’d crack her skull.

The room spun sickly, though her eyes were not even open. She willed the throbbing to stop by gently reciting the only formula that eased the horrific thudding in her skull.

It was a survival game. He might move on to somewhere, or someone else. Don’t breathe – he might think you’re dead, yes, that was it. Don’t breathe…

Thoughts were murder. Keep the endless noise of her mind quiet or DIE.

“What time is it, how long has it been,” her brain taunted, stabbing a knife into her brain with reality like sharpness.

Her prison warden whipped around. His name tag read “Senior A.R.M.M” and make no mistake, his arm was hulking and wicked with a Skull Cracker in it’s fist.

His breed, the Angry Red Manic Monster’s, could not be stopped once they possessed your DNA in their data banks. Senior A.R.M.M. sneered at her, reading her thoughts. Lips curling back he grinned wickedly. His arm raised up and gained a greater grip on his sickening weapon.

Wumph –

NOOOOOOO… she screamed in pain, withering, hands clawing at her face, digging into her own eye sockets. A sickening liquid began to ooze from the fissures in the cracks.

She could get free if only she could find a way to take the head off her body.

Die you say? She’d die if she did that? Why would that be a bad thing? Death and the peace of painlessness were far more appealing than lying and waiting for the next searing crack to the skull.

Play the game.


She could win if she outlasted him…

She was nauseous instantly as she felt the static charge of air change with his movements. He was moving towards her.

Play dead! Play DEAD!


The stale air stirred around her and a light breeze floated over her skin. Did he leave?

She took a full breath in and filled her lungs with new life. Yes, he was gone. His putrid acidic smell was fading.

Excitement built but she continued to play dead. Rejoicing would bring him back. She was his favorite prisoner to torture. She did not second-guess anything. She lay there for hours longer, barely breathing. He was the worst – the best of his kind.

Her warden, “Senior A.R.M.M,” was leader of the strongest battalion in the Migraine Army. He was ALWAYS back!


Background:  Written to put a visual to the torture that can be living with chronic migraines…used as a flash piece for a contest on another writing site.


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