orange czech


Prague, Czech Republic

The sounds of footsteps could be heard. With that awful silence, the footsteps could be heard clearly. And they got louder. And louder. Iva looked at the broken plate on the floor – she had dropped it by accident. She was nervous. Her brown hair was glued to her forehead by the sweat. Trembling hands.
The footsteps got louder. And louder.
Was it her master? Or another slave, like her?
The czech girl’s orange collar shined with the few lights that illuminated the whole room, and she, in a hurry, tried to get away with the evidence of another mistake.
The footsteps stopped.
She then turned her head to see the person staring at her.