#132 for the drabbles
132. I have reasons. You wouldn’t get it.
There’s a pain throbbing in his head; somewhere behind his eyes and
further back a little.
He’s only drifting into consciousness.
He has no memory of it.
His mouth is dry; lips cracking; throat wheezing.
When did he last have water?
His eyes stutter open for a flash. The light is searing; disorientating.
He goes to lift his hands to shield his eyes. It’s instinct.
But his hands don’t follow their orders.
There’s a sharpness to the pain in his wrists; restricted; trapped.
He’s still drifting.
Until the panic builds.
He tries shifting again; realises his hands are tied; tight.
He shuffles; sitting on a concrete floor; back solid against the wall, exposed brickwork rough through the material of his shirt.
He’s opening his eyes again and shutting them before focusing; he’s blinding himself each time but he needs to see.
He needs to know.
His memory starts working again, but it’s patchy; distorted; thawing slowly.
He sees Aaron in the kaleidoscope of images in his mind.
His heart’s racing now.
He remembers the pain.
Coughing; fighting it.
The bright light behind his eyelids darkens and they open.
Of course it’s her.
She’s holding water to his lips, and he takes it; feels the tide of it ripple down his aching, parched, crackled throat.
She pours too much and he splutters; pulling against the restraints aggressively.
“Where is he?” he demands; begs; threatens.
She steps back, watches him struggling against it, and she laughs.
It’s cold; his blood runs the same.
She doesn’t answer.
“Where is he?” it comes again; shouts it now; breathing ragged; tears pooling; voice hitched in desperation; threat still alive.
“If you’ve done anything to him…”
He can’t continue.
He can’t finish that sentence – the words don’t exist; the tears fall
too easily at the thought of it.
“Why are you doing this to us?“
The plea is desperate; the threat still prevalent; the need for an answer hesitant.
"I have reasons. You wouldn’t get it,” she says.
And it all goes black.