Fallen (drabble/potential short story opening)

This is a piece I wrote for my portfolio as part of my creative writing course, as an opening for a story. As it is, I see it as more of a drabble than an opening, something that can stand on its own as a story. However, depending on your feedback, I have a few ideas as to how I could extend this into more of a short story. I hope you like it, and please give me your opinions; would you like to see more of this story?


Fallen

An occasional drip is the only sound to be heard. Moss thrives in cracks in each of the four stone walls. A sliver of light from a thin, barred window in the ceiling falls upon shackles, the metal glinting where there is no rust. They enclose thin, pale wrists which have been slashed by brutal weapons of torture. Every so often, a drop of blood falls to the floor. The ruby red trails shimmer where the light hits them.

The frail figure dreams. He whiles away the time between the punishments, that rip repeated denials as screams and whimpers from his choked throat, in a fitful sleep. Greyed images of men and women in long coats with studious expressions, making incisions with medical instruments, meld together. Beyond the experimentation is the constant sensation of falling, as though for eternity. A solitary tear falls from one closed eye. Held within it is the aching of heart and soul that he has endured for so long he can’t remember when it began.

Waking with a start, his chin drops onto his chest. He is confronted by the sight of his ribcage, enclosed by his receding flesh. He has almost forgotten what his face looked like before he came here, but he knows he was beautiful. His skin had been radiant, seemingly with an aura of its own, his jaw and cheekbones proud and refined, framed elegantly by his rich chestnut hair which had flowed over his shoulders, shimmering as though woven from sunlight. He tugs at the matted mass of knots his hair is now and mourns at the thought of the pitiful thing he has become.

Footsteps echo and approach the cell. Once more, Celestius resigns himself to the knowledge of what’s to come. Outside, the sun shifts, casting his face into shadow. The only shard of light remaining illuminates torn, white wings tipped with black. They hang limp, as darker shadows appear in the crack beneath the door.