I slept, floating in and out, hearing snippets of conversation, all of it about me: “When’s he going to be ready?” in a terse Eastern accent, “Haven’t had one of these in awhile,” in a more local and alcoholised tone, “He’ll be worth looking at once he cleans up,” in a giggly, conspiratorial young woman’s voice. I paid it all no heed, knowing that as soon as I was fully conscious and capable of communication, I’d get the full story.
At one point, I felt hands fumbling at my shorts, and them embarrassed, girlish laughter. Another time, two voices, military in vibe, prodded and manipulated my body here and there, checking out my collection of knife-scars, bullet wounds and snake-bites. One voice approved of my toughness; the other disapproved of my lifestyle. I instinctively liked the first voice more.
However long this period lasted, I was pretty sure that by the end of it, there wasn’t a single person in this place, wherever it was, who hadn’t seen and commented upon every inch of me.
When I came to for what felt like the final, permanent time, I lifted my head a bit, just to test it out. I didn’t immediately feel like puking, so I eased myself up, a bit at a time, muscles burning and bitching with the effort, until I was sitting up against the wall and feeling, at long last, like an exhausted and pissed-off but still essentially functional human being.
I was alone in the room. I blinked my eyes, rubbed them. Vision was still a little blurry. I looked around. Walls were dried mud and stone; floors were wood planks and dirt. The door was metal. There were bars on the windows, and the light coming through them could have been either morning or evening: I had no bearings to tell me which.
Again, I tested the vocal chords. Again, I produced nothing.
I looked for something near me, something I could lift in my weakened hand. I found a cup next to a pitcher, both of them carved of wood. Slowly, I hefted it. My arm felt like I was lifting a cup ten times the size of this one. I threw it towards the door. It landed two feet shy, and didn’t make much noise at that. Sonofabitch.
Pathetic.
I chuckled harshly and noiselessly at my predicament.
I didn’t know who had put me in this condition, whatever it was, but one thing was for certain. As soon as my finger could pull a trigger, some people were going to die.
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