Exhausted, I lean against the door. My hands move onto the door knob, turning the lock. Rust adheres to my palm. I can almost smell the disgusting, bloody odor of rusty iron. Or is it my blood? I can still feel the sticky, dark-red liquid seeping through the clothes I wrapped on my left forearm.
But I can still hear their voices. Louder. Fainter. Fainter. Okay, they are leaving. I sighed in relief.
What’s in here though? I’m somehow curious, but my curiosity is more of thirst and hunger. I take out my phone. Luckily, the battery is still at 97%, so I take a photo as I’m afraid that they can see the flashlight. Now, I realize what this warehouse is: the food storage of my company.