“You’re very lucky,” Moore whispers. “Most don’t survive even the first round. But you—” His tongue clicks against his teeth, savoring the idea. “You’re exceptional. I don’t want to scar you. So perhaps torment of another kind is in order.”
He steps away, drops the bloody cotton into a metal tray, and writes something on a clipboard.
He never stops narrating.
“There’s a girl upstairs,” he says. “She’ll go next. But I want to see how much you remember when I’m done here.” He picks up another needle, this one thicker, and slides it under the skin at my neck.
He presses, slow and careful, until I hear the wet pop as it goes in.
“There it is,” he says, satisfied.
He tapes the needle in place, then adjusts the bag of fluid so it drips faster.
My stomach twists, the pain mixing with the nausea, but I hold still. I always do.
He stands back and folds his hands behind his back.
“Your body is adjusting to your medication,” he says. “That’s good.”
My world blurs at the edges. The saline tastes bitter, and the pressure in my throat builds with every drop. The blood in my neck pulses in a ragged, angry rhythm.
He sets a timer on the table, so I can watch the seconds crawl by.
He leaves me there, strapped and impaled and unable to move. The sound of the ticking fills the room. The only other sound is my heart, pounding so hard I think it might explode.
He’ll come back soon, and when he does, it will be worse.
It always is.
But for now, I float in the whiteness of the lights, the too-clean air, the cold steel of the chair. I focus on the crack in the ceiling, the one flaw in this entire, perfect room.
If I look at the crack, maybe I won’t have to feel the rest of it.
I wake up in the same position. Joints locked, tongue so swollen I can’t swallow. The saline bag is empty, a limp balloon. My jeans are still tangled at my knees, but the needles are gone, leaving a slow trickle of blood down my legs and arms.
Moore returns, this time carrying a small white pill. He presses it against my lips, waits until my mouth opens, then pops it inside.
“Antibiotics,” he says. “I don’t want you to get sick. Not until I’m done.”
He kneels in front of me, face level with mine.
“Thank me,” he says.
I shake my head, just a tiny motion.
He smiles, a small, pleased smile.
“We’ll do this again,” he says.
He stands, releases the strap at my waist, and yanks my head back by the hair.
The world flips and I slam onto the floor. The tile is cold enough to burn, and I lie there, shivering, until the next set of hands hauls me up and drags me back to my cell.
I know the cycle now. I know how to wait.
There’s a sound. A quiet murmur.
I blink.
