Dirty blonde hair cascaded around you, your fingers itching to see if it was as soft as it appeared. Her eyes seemed to nearly glow from behind darkened lashes, alight with bold determination and adrenaline.
From her attire, you would have expected her to be rough, to be more concerned with efficiency rather than comfort.
But soft assurances were slipping past her lips, steady fingers gentle as they manoeuvred around your wounds and undid your bonds.
Her fingers were calloused, dragging slightly as she continued working, deftly adjusting her picks as she continued fighting with the lock.
Blue irises would flicker towards your own every few moments, an underlying worry becoming more tangible each time.
Why was she so concerned?
It was hard to focus on anything, images distorted in dancing discolourations, vision perceiving too many shadows of pitched obsidian and dusky grey.
"Hey, hey. None of that."
Your heavy eyelids parted, gaze struggling to seek out the face of your rescuer, of your heroine, your knight in denim and leather.
The sincerity in her eyes elicited a hiss from you, wispy images of neon, of smoke, of slow kisses in hidden alleyways flitting to your consciousness, only to fade away again in a breath.
A daydream of the angel you had met in the park scarcely a week before.
A daydream that had felt so real, you were uncertain if this was your reality; the hissing steam, the scritching of cockroaches, the creaking chains all had to be the fiction.
Yet, if these factors were, in fact, your current truth, then there was decidedly no possible way the beauty before you was part of it.
Only in your most vivid doldrums could you have ever conjured such tenderness, such fondness.
You allowed yourself this momentary fancy though, pretending for just a moment that there was someone out there truly concerned for you, who could save you from that monster that had forced you here, trapped you here.
How very Märchenesque.
Your name brought with it a glimmer of sanguinity however, focus drawn to the lips from which it had been whispered.
"My name's Claire," she continued, the rest of her speech fading away as you savoured the weight of her name in your mind.
Your lady's name was Claire.
It was easy to follow through on her cues: support your weight on her shoulders, keep pressure on your abdomen, try to keep up.
You had anticipated some difficulty, and you were still partially convinced this was all a dream, some last shred of hopeless optimism before your demise.
As the sunlight finally streamed across your face once again, you allowed yourself to believe in miracles, your faith restoring with each step to your saviour's car.