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I only hope it goes epically bad for them.
The door swings open and I try to relax my features. I have no idea what a knocked-out person is supposed to look like, or how long someone is supposed to be unconscious after being choked out. But based on the action movies I’ve seen, which is probably all nonsense, people can be out for minutes or hours.
Cold air blows over me, stinging across the cuts that mar every inch of my exposed skin.
A man heaves out an annoyed sigh. “Alright, let’s get her in.”
Hands that are becoming unfortunately familiar grab at me roughly.
“Wait,” another voice interrupts, accompanied by a quiet smacking sound, like the man just used the back of his hand to smack someone else on the chest. “This one can carry her.”
The hands leave me. “Be my guest.”
I almost jump when a new hand shoves its way between my side and the floor underneath me.
Staying dead weight is so much harder than I expected, but somehow I manage as the man hoists me up and over his shoulder. With my butt in the air and my head and arms dangling toward the ground, it’s harder to breathe, but fighting would make everything hurt more, so I stay as limp as I can.
He jostles me with each step. And I feel tears track from the corners of my eyes up my forehead and into my hair.
I’m tempted to blink them away, to try and see my surroundings, but I don’t dare open my eyes, unsure if anyone is close enough to see.
It doesn’t really matter anyway. Even if I track a path out of the house and find a way to break out of an unoccupied room, I’ll never be able to run. That car crash messed me up.
And the throbbing in my skull warns me that I might have a concussion. The upside-down blood rush only exacerbating the headache.
Doors open, then slam.
I’m taken up a few steps. Down a few steps. And I’m on the verge of full-out crying over the throbbing inside my skull when the man stops.
There’s a knock, and another door opens, and we start to move forward again.
Someone does a slow clap, and I instantly hate them.
“So, this is her, huh?” The voice is smarmy and I’m assuming he’s the one in charge. “Nice ass, I guess.”
A sound I’m not expecting clicks across the room.
High heels.
Something inside me starts to uncoil. Women help women. This might––
A hand fists in my hair, yanking my head up, my neck screaming at me in protest.
I start to yell out in shock, but my outburst is silenced when something hard strikes my face. The blow connecting with my cheek and the corner of my mouth.
The hand lets go before I have time to focus on the person that struck me and my face drops back down, my nose colliding with the man’s back.
“The bitch was just faking it.” The female voice is full of so much hate I don’t understand it. “She’s awake.”
“Now, now. That’s no way to treat our esteemed guest, Nikki.”
The name niggles at a memory in my brain, but then the man holding me bends forward, and I slide off his shoulder, crashing down onto an uncomfortable couch.
A pathetic cry escapes me.
Inside and out, everything feels like an exposed nerve.
How much pain can one person feel?
