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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?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want it. Immediately.” There’s the sound of movement. I see a blur at the end of the bed. I wish I could rub at my eyes to help them clear so I could see better. “And get that out of his fucking mouth. I want my slave to be able to speak.”
The vent? They’re going to take the vent out of my mouth?
Relief surges through me, making my fingers tingle and my eyes water.
And then the rest of the words register and the world begins closing in.
My slave.
He said my slave.
Did Master… sell me?
