She was fragile before it started. She shouldn’t have to go through this again. But nobody cared. They just used her and tossed her aside.
Once she’d been soft, plump and pretty. How they loved to snuggle into her enfolding embrace.
This one would finish her. Holding her breath, she sank into it, let the comfort permeate through her one last time, relishing the moist, seeping warmth, the slow, rhythmic pulsing.
But she knew what was coming. Here it was—a pause, a shift in momentum, and she was ripped to shreds.
That spin cycle is a killer.
This is my spin on the photo prompt for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting the link-up each week.