I woke with cotton candy in my head. My thoughts were slow. Sluggish. I felt addled. But unlike my first awakening, I had a very clear memory of my most recent past.
I wasn’t alone.
Someone, or something, was in the room with me.
I bolted upright. Immediately, I was reminded of my reaction.
I’d injured myself.
Gently, I tested my shoulders. Surprisingly, they moved. Stiffly. But they moved.
I worked them in their sockets. They were incredibly sore. I knew it would take weeks for the soft tissue to heal completely, but at least they were in place. Back in their sockets where they should’ve been. The question was: how? And who?
Someone had come in while I was passed out. Or maybe it was the person who was already in here. Whoever touched my leg. They’d probably drugged me again. In fact, I was almost sure of it. My head weighed a hundred pounds again, and I was as fuzzy as a cashmere sweater.
So someone had drugged me, and then they’d reduced both shoulders. I was unconscious. Completely vulnerable. Hadn’t even felt the pain of my shoulders being manipulated. I shuddered to think what else had been done to me.
My chin trembled, but I refused to focus on any other body parts to check for pain or soreness. If I’d been raped, I didn’t want to know.
It dawned on me that I was truly at my captor’s mercy. This had been planned. Thought-out. I was at a huge disadvantage in every way.
My chest ached. My heart raced faster and faster. If I’d stood any chance of fighting or escaping, those chances decreased dramatically when I dislocated my own shoulders like some kind of imbecile. That one unfortunate turn of events had quite possibly rendered me prey. Much more than my situation ever did. Now I was limited. Now I was weak.
“Who’s there?” I shouted, half in anger and half in panic.
No answer.
“Who’s there?” I repeated, aiming my voice in a slightly different direction. Maybe if someone were around, I’d hear a difference in the way my words sounded. Like echolocation. Hell, if it was good enough for bats, it was good enough for me.
Still no answer, so I turned a few degrees more. “Hey!”
Nothing.
“Hey!” I shouted from even further left. “Answer me, you bastard!”
I repeated this, hollering into the dark, listening for changes in the acoustics, until I’d turned what I thought was a full circle. Nothing sounded any different.
I stopped moving completely. Even held my breath. I listened. Listened for breathing, for movement, for the faint brush of material on skin. I heard nothing.
As far as I could tell, I was alone.
I took a deep breath. Inhaled the stale air. Sniffed for the aroma of cologne or deodorant or hair products. Body odor. Bad breath. Anything that smelled like another human being somewhere near me. There was nothing. Nothing but the nauseating scent of my vomit. Nothing but my own stench. No one could sweat this much, for this long and not wear out their deodorant.
That’s when I noticed that I wasn’t sweating anymore. I touched my arm, my chest, my neck. My skin was tacky, but not actively sweating. Yet, if anything, the room was even hotter. And I hadn’t had the urge to pee since whenever I’d peed on myself. Definitely before I woke up naked and in chains. That wasn’t a good sign, I knew. I was probably too dehydrated to sweat. I’d been drugged after all, so I had no idea how long I’d been here. Wherever here was. A person can survive far longer without food, but only three days without water. And sweating like I had been, probably less. Maybe a lot less.
Like magic—black, awful, asshole magic—the thought of a drink of water triggered a thirst that was almost excruciating. I wished for a second I hadn’t even had the thought.
I’d never been so thirsty in my entire life. My tongue was so dry it felt like a sheet of sandpaper inside my mouth. I would’ve given anything for just one tiny sip of cold water. Hell, it didn’t even have to be cold. It could be warm. I doubted I’d even have cared if it were clean. The more I thought about it, the more I focused on how thirsty I was, the more desperate I got. I remembered watching a survival show where a guy drank his own urine. At the time, I’d thought that was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. Crappy television at its best.
Maybe I’d been too quick to judge.
The thought of drinking my own pee made me cringe, but I was already to the point where I couldn’t rule it out. That alone was an alarming level of disturbing, especially for someone like me.
I told myself that it wouldn’t come to that. I mean, why would someone kidnap me and just stick me in a room to die of thirst? Where was the fun in that? Surely, the guy had some other plan for me, which would entail (I hoped) keeping me alive. Because that would necessitate him giving me water.
I tried to draw comfort from that rationale as I drew my knees in close to my chest and rested my chin on them. I just had to wait. Be patient and wait. Someone would come. And I would be ready. Ready to fight. Preferably after I’d had a drink of water.