Her legs dangle, motionless, over each side of the long wooden panes. In a frantic attempt to touch the ground, she extends each exhausted muscle in her leg, down to the tips of her toes. Her feet are rough and dirty, her toenails are painted with cracked pink polish.
Her attempts to touch the ground are unbearably painful.
The spikes of the wooden panes dig unforgivingly into the soft skin around the tops and inner parts of her thighs. The further she extends her legs, the harder and deeper the spikes obtrude. In some places, the delicate skin on her thighs has broken. Spots of blood stain the grey wood.
Her legs are so tense, extended so far, it feels as though her hips will dislocate in any moment.
It just too far down, she simply cannot touch the ground.
An impulsive, assertive drive from somewhere unknown urges her to leap off the wooden spikes and land with an audacious thud, but the fence is imposingly high: she is terrified that if she lands on the wrong side, she won’t have the strength or courage to climb back up.
She is delusional though. Her mind is a skilful manipulator.
In reality, she could step over the fence with ease. It is insignificantly small.