Where was she? Was she still alive? How many times had she allowed them to touch her? My blood heated with a fury so swift and all consuming it made my vision blur and tint with crimson. Slowly desiccating in this dungeon of my own making. I’d been on this cot, unconscious for five days. The screen flashed to life, blinding me, the battery icon in the top corner red and blinking. My cell phone peeked out from beneath the cot and bent to grab it, coughing when the movement sent a bolt of lancing pain through my side. But my grip on the cot’s edge saved me from the fall and I waited until it passed. Hands shaking, I carefully eased myself upright, shutting my eyes against a wave of vertigo I was sure would take me to the floor. Though I doubted the throbbing ache pressing on my skull like a drum would ease any time soon. That I still had the ability of rational thought. But instead of better, it’d gotten so much worse.

Manageable without emergency intervention. The bleeding into the skin and soft tissues around my chest was ugly as shit but it would fade with time and proper circulation. The broken ribs were more a nuisance than anything, and gratefully none had punctured a lung. I had no doubt it was that bag of hydrative solution that prevented my death. The IV bag hung shriveled where I’d fastened it to the wall above my cot with a blade stabbed directly into the wooden beam.

I tugged it out with a grunt, and felt the warmth of fresh blood pool and spill down my forearm. Until I could move enough to reach over my battered body to the IV needle I’d haphazardly jabbed into my vein when the fever came on, bringing with it a delirium so complete that I saw four of my own arm as I fed the needle into my skin. Long enough that I could draw a fuller breath and the dim light no longer seared my eyes. I couldn’t be sure how much longer I lay there in a pool of my own sweat and blood and piss and stink, but long enough that the feeling returned to my fingers. I groaned, but that only made my ribs scream in protest of the vibration. The cold room wavered in and out of focus. My neck strained as I turned stiffly on the sweat-soaked pillow beneath my head, trying to blink through the haze clouding my eyes. My sight returned in increments, eyelids heavy and crusted so thickly my eyelashes plucked themselves free of my flesh as I worked to open them. My body felt frail, wisp-like as though hollowed out and stuffed with leaves. Knowing there would be nothing to throw up even if I succumbed to the urge. But, unwilling to move just yet, I forced the rank taste of death down as I swallowed, trying to moisten my aching throat. A foul taste defiled my dry mouth and I resisted the swift and sudden urge to turn over and vomit onto the cement floor. Its angry claws dug into my chest and arms, dragging me up from the depths of a deep and dreamless unconsciousness.

Twisted games elena lawson