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Everything itches. Burns. Aches. Hurts, hurts, hurts.
I lie perfectly still in the hard bed - I’ve recently discovered that it’s a modified hospital bed, with a mattress that’s apparently made of fucking bricks - and let my surroundings sink in. It doesn’t take as long as it has been this time, my brain feeling slightly less fuzzy.
There’s still a blanket draped over my naked body. The same one that’s always been on me from what I can tell. Scratchy and too thin, but still fucking amazing. I wanted to thank Master for it, but he's been ignoring me. It hurts worse than the physical pain.
The tube they forced down my throat at some point is still there too, one of those things I’ve seen in hospital shows when me and my dad used to binge them together. They were our guilty pleasure, always watching them when he got home from work. A ventilator - that’s what it’s called. And people always hated them in the shows. Choked on them. Fought them. I understand why now. It’s fucking torture - and that’s saying something coming from someone who has experienced quite a lot of torture recently.
I tried to beg the doctor to take it out when he first put it in, but all I’m able to do with it is whine and grunt. I think he understood what I wanted though. He had just laughed at me.
It makes my throat ache. I’m so unbelievably thirsty. My dry lips are cracking and bleeding where they wrap around the tube. Worst of all, it keeps me from being able to breathe on my own. Sometimes I go to take a breath because it feels like I need one, and the machine just… doesn’t let me. The first time it did that, I panicked. I tried yanking it out. They cuffed me to the bed and put something in my IV that burned and burned and burned. The drug eventually ran out, but the cuffs haven’t gone away, and neither has the ventilator.
If I could talk, I’d beg them to let me go back to the dungeon. I’d do anything - the crawling game, the gangrapes, the sleep deprivation - if it meant I could just fucking breathe.
I wince when I feel fresh tears fall down my cheeks. They’ll dry soon, and then my face will feel tight and itchy.
How much longer will this last? When they take the cuffs off, should I try to grab the medical scissors I saw before on the instrument tray, or should I wait until Master brings me near a table where I can snatch a knife? It'll have to be quick. Straight to the carotid, so there's no chance of saving me.
I can't wait.
The door to my room opens. My body automatically goes rigid. I try to suck in a breath, but the machine doesn’t allow it. Panic swells in my chest as I wait for the machine to decide when I get to have air in my lungs.
Agony.
That’s the word for how I feel.
Pure fucking agony.
I try to turn my head toward the door, hoping to get a glimpse of who came in, but it feels impossibly heavy. It’s probably just the doctor anyway. Master has only been here a few times, and only when things are going wrong. Maybe something is going wrong? Am I finally dying? Please, please, please let me be dying.
“Why is he vented?” a voice I don’t recognize asks.
Usually, I wouldn’t be able to say if I recognized the voice or not with everything being so foggy lately, but this voice is American, and I’ve never heard an American in Master’s house before. Not once. This man, whoever he is, is new.
“His respiratory rate was too high,” another voice says. The doctor. I’m fairly sure that’s the doctor.
“And now?” the American asks.
“And now it’s just for fun,” Master says. I know it’s Master. My survival depends on recognizing him. “The dog hates it.”
There’s a silence that feels heavy and wrong. The absence of sound makes a whooshing noise grow in my ears. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for it to pass. It’s been happening a lot lately. I don’t even want to know why.
“Is that why he’s tied down?” I hear the American ask, his voice water-logged beneath the whooshing. “Did he try to remove it?”
“Yes. He was punished, don’t worry. But we figured it was better to be safe than sorry, so we kept the restraints on even after his punishment.”
I try to breathe, forgetting for a moment that I can’t. The machine reminds me. I press my fingertips into the mattress as hard as I’m able, trying to keep myself grounded as I wait for the machine to grant me the privilege of air.
“His blanket is filthy,” the American says, sounding annoyed.
“He has a hard time keeping his fluids inside his body,” the doctor murmurs.
“It’s fucking disgusting. Get him a new one.”
“Right away,” Master says.
Who is this man and why did Master just let him talk to him like that?
“I want to see his chart. I assume you’ve kept a record of his care, yes?”
