A sharp anguish shot through her whole body, a constant, pulsating misery that would not go away. She felt like a thousand needles were puncturing her skin, each one piercing her body and causing unbearable agony. Every breath, every movement, appeared to make the pain worse, making the most basic tasks seem like impossible tasks. Straining the cries that were on the verge of spilling out of her mouth, she clinched her teeth. However, the suffering was too great, too pervasive. She was reduced to nothing more than a living, breathing vessel of agony as it devoured her body and spirit. She gasped for oxygen as her muscles seized involuntarily, convulsing in waves of pain. Her senses were being brutally and mercilessly attacked, and it didn't seem to be getting any better. Her cheeks were wet with tears that mixed with the perspiration that covered her skin from the fever. Her heart pounded in her chest, causing new waves of pain to radiate outward with every beat. The constant drumming served as a reminder of her body's disloyalty. She had never experienced such agony and unwavering torture. Time seemed to drag on forever, with each instant seeming to linger for an eternity filled with suffering. She yearned for relief, for even the smallest break from the never-ending pain that overcame her. She attempted to divert her attention from the agony by concentrating on something, anything, despite the anguish. However, the grief was overwhelming, an unrelenting force that did not allow for logic or reflection. She let out a primal scream in a desperate attempt to find release, a guttural cry of agony that reverberated throughout the empty room. It was an agonized cry, a request for the suffering to stop. However, there was no response, no solace to come. Alone with her anguish, she felt as though there was no way out of the sea of pain. And so she lay, lost in agony, until at last, thankfully, darkness overtook her and she fell into slumber, thankfully rescued from the ceaseless suffering that had been her only company.
