I Did Not Give The Last One A Title, And I'm Sticking To The Motif Damn It

Chapter 2

It is stars today.

You have fewer hallucinations than you did before. Occasionally, you will hear your name on a nonexistent breeze, the door sliding open, the sensation of things poking you, or a viscous liquid on your hands, but it is nowhere as bad as it was before. Visual hallucinations, on the other hand, are much more vivid, much more numerous. You think you read somewhere that it is from a lack of stimulation that you see things— because if you could see the galaxy open up before you, someone would come and grab you— but the last time you read something on the subject feels like a long time ago, so who are you to assume?

Regardless of whether or not it exists, it is pretty.

You want to reach up and touch them. You think you would be able to if you could move your wrists; the leash they have you on is tight.
The silence is the worst of all. You can only listen to your breathing for so long before it gets tiresome.

Nobody comes in with a mop. You fantasize about that, now, staring up at the stars. A hot shower. You hope you can take one before they kill you, if they do. Last requests are things that exist. Maybe you can even brush your teeth. Not tasting vomit would be nice.

Your eyes slide shut. You are already sick of stars.

'Is he looking for me?' You roll onto your side, curling up as usual. You hope he is. You hope Donnie worries about you. You certainly worry enough about him and his family.

"Get up."

Your eyes open slightly. Your stomach is not nearly painful enough for her to be back so soon. You mumble out a question.

"I'll explain on the road." Why is her voice urgent? "We're leaving. Now. Yesterday. Get up."

As you pull your body upright, your heart stops at the jangling of keys on a key ring. "You're... gonna let me out?"

"I'm dumping you off somewhere," she explains absently. "You just can't be here. You don't need to anyway, for his plan." The cuffs around your wrists release, and you almost cry from relief. "I've got clothes you can change into. I'll take a car."

You barely hear her. "Why?"

She pauses. "I'll explain on the way." There is a thump. "Get in."

"I can't walk." You rub your wrists gingerly, heart pounding in your throat at the idea of getting in a car with her. "I—"

"You don't need to." Panic, now. "I'll carry you." You feel her lift you up, set you back down. "All you need to do is be quiet and trust that wherever I'm taking you I'd better than staying here."

'Why are you panicking?' You feel what you can assume is harsh cloth against your skin as you are forced into a fetal position, swallowing you. "Why," you ask quietly. "Why are you doing this for me?"

She hoists you up; your eyes squeeze shut. "I'm not," she says simply.

You curl up tighter than needed, swallowing bile rising in your throat. You think that the bag you are in is a potato sack, and you do not trust a potato sack to support your weight. Your fingers interlace in front of your mouth, lips moving in a silent prayer for her to not drop you.

It is odd. You fear her dropping you more than being caught.

You can tell when you leave the room. Her footsteps sound the same, but you can see the light stream in from behind your eyelids, painfully saturated. You stop yourself from asking her to shut off the light, reminding yourself that it would be a bad idea to get yourself put back into the room.

You are in that bag for a while. You have no idea how long, and you lose count of how many jerking movements she makes, but you know it is a long time. Once, she is stopped completely, and you almost cry at the sound of another voice; masculine, an adult, not anyone you know or have heard. The conversation is short. You do not hear it. She moves on.