Wished for rescue.
Wished for solace.
Wished for someone who would actually care about her.
Maybe the reason she was so good at enduring the pain they kept heaping upon her was because she was an old hat at it. Pain had been part of her life for as long as she could remember. It had filled her childhood as her dad beat on her every chance he had. Some of her foster families had beat on her too. Foster dads, or foster moms, or sometimes even foster siblings.
Her first boyfriend had put his hands on her as well, although rather than hit her, he liked to wrap those long fingers of his around her neck and squeeze until she could no longer draw in air and was sure she was going to die.
It was why when she’d met her husband—ex-husband now—the fact that he’d been sweet and gentle had her falling hard and fast. He’d wound up hurting her, too, just not with his fists. Still cheating on her, kicking her out of their home and sending her divorce papers hurt just as badly.
Maybe it was because of a lifetime of pain that she lay where she was for a long moment after she knew she needed to move.
If something was happening, it could be her chance. Chance at what she didn't even know. Living, dying, surviving to see another day, even if that day would be filled with nothing but darkness and horrors.
“Move,” she ordered herself. No matter how much Indigo might find the idea of death appealing, after a lifetime of suffering, who wouldn't find the notion of peace appealing, she had to take advantage of this opportunity while it existed.
Surviving childhood abuse of every kind you could think of, thenabuse at the hands of a partner, had made her determined and resourceful. It had deadened her somewhat to the harsher realities of life, and she was now pretty sure that was all that was keeping her alive.
This was supposed to be a chance to rebuild her life. She’d been homeless ever since her husband kicked her out. So when someone came around to the shelters, offering a chance at good money just for signing up to be part of an experimental drug program, why wouldn't she say yes?
How could she have known these people were really sadistic psychopaths, who intended to inject her with a drug that had made her feel like her blood had been set on fire? That they would put a shock collar around her neck and use it to enforce her compliance? That they would keep her in a cage, and refuse to let her out unless it was to experiment on her some more? That the drug filled her with a rage that was hard to contain, while simultaneously urging her to end her own suffering by taking her life?
Or that it somehow gave her an enhanced tolerance for pain that these people seemed to enjoy exploiting.
Now, though, she had to decide if she was going to fight or give up, and even though she badly wanted to give up, she pushed herself up into a sitting position and then looked around.
Around her, she could hear shouts, panic, and even the muffled pops that told her someone was shooting. Whether they were shooting at one another or whoever had set off the red flashing light that indicated that someone was coming, she had no idea.
Didn't care either.
She certainly wasn't going to sit around and wait to find out.
Ignoring the heaviness in her leg, the stiffness in the rest of her body, Indigo drew in a deep breath and then threw herself off the table in the lab.
Agony exploded through her battered body. Whatever had been in that drug she’d been given didn't remove her ability to feel pain, it was more like it dulled it really quickly, so instead of the excruciating agony assaulting her, stealing her ability to think, to breathe, possibly even pushing her into unconsciousness, it slowly seeped out of her system.
Knowing she’d already wasted more time than she should have,Indigo lifted her head from the cool linoleum floor. There was still shouting going on, more pops that meant more people were dying, but so far, nobody had come in here.
That wouldn't last.
She’d been left because they’d struck her leg with a hammer, breaking the bones in the lower half, and splitting the skin open in the process. In the morning, they’d come back to see how she was doing, and probably give her needle and thread to stitch up the wound. That was a favorite game of theirs, and it wasn't just the obvious horrors of having to stitch yourself up that she hated, it was the fact that she wasn't kept in clean conditions.
Infection was a given, and it was currently ravaging her body from a wound inflicted a couple of days ago.
Nausea had bile burning her throat as she scanned the room, her gaze landing on a supply cupboard she was pretty sure she could squeeze inside. Hiding felt cowardly, but one thing she’d learned as a small child was that pride meant nothing when it came to self-preservation.
So she planted her palms on the floor and dragged herself toward it.
It was every bit the hell she’d been expecting it to be. Pain tore through her, even if it faded faster than it would have a couple of months ago. Her arms were weak and shaky, barely able to keep pulling her onward.
At least the cold floor felt nice against her overheated skin.
When she reached the cabinet, Indigo wasn't sure she had the strength left in her body to endure standing up to reach the handle, but had no other choice.
Well, there was, but lying there and waiting to be found, possibly shot, wasn't on the table.
So once again she planted her palms on the cabinet, not the floor this time, and pushed up. Clamping her teeth together, she held in the howl of pain as she jostled her leg, but still a pitiful whimper escaped.
