Little Lamb

3 ❦ hurt me, yell at me, stitch me up

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As the masked man leaned in closer, his breath brushed against my skin, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. His voice, deep cutting, sliced through the stillness.

"Hmm... You're good at hiding, but your stepfather isn't."

The mention of my stepfather yanked the ground out from under me. My chest tightened, and my thoughts spiraled out of control. Why was I here? What did they want from me? Could it be... could they be working for him?

"I don't understand," I stammered.
"Why am I here? What does any of this have to do with him?"

He straightened. "Listen. You're here because you're useful. It's not about him entirely. It's about you."

"I don't know anything!" My voice broke, a sob escaping as the weight of it all crushed me. My stepfather's world, dangerous, deceptive had always seemed at a distance. I'd done everything to keep it that way. Now, I was trapped in the middle of it.

He leaned down, grabbing my chin with a force that made me wince. His gloved fingers pressed against my skin, holding me firmly in place. "You don't think I believe you, do you? I know you've seen things, heard things. You're not as clueless as you pretend to be."

"Tears spilled freely now, hot against my cheeks as I shook my head desperately. "I swear, I don't know anything! He never told me about his business, he barely spoke to me."

He studied me in silence, his grip still unrelenting. His eyes, visible through the slits in his mask, were cold, unreadable. Finally, he released my chin with a scoff, letting me fall back onto the bed like a discarded doll.

"You're not in the right state of mind now. We'll continue this when you're patched up," he said flatly, turning his attention toward the door.

Two men entered, their faces obscured by balaclavas. One of them carried a medical kit, and their tall muscular figures filled the room. My stomach churned as I watched them. They had to be professionals.

My gaze lingered on the one with the medical kit. His green eyes were sharp, framed by dark lashes, and his rolled, up sleeves revealed veined, muscular arms. His presence should have been comforting, but it wasn't. None of this was.

My kidnapper left without another glance and the medic stepped forward, knelt by my side and began unrolling the medical supplies.

My cheeks were red, my rosy lipstick smeared across my lips as I looked around nervously at him. I felt weird and personal alone with him in my room.

He grabbed a bottle of liquid medicine from the table. With a twist of the lid, he poured some of the liquid onto a wad of cotton.

"Open your mouth," he instructed.

I hesitated, my lips trembling, but the glare in his eyes left no room for argument. When I didn't move quickly enough, he sighed, muttering something under his breath before forcing a wad of medicated cotton between my lips.

"Swallow." he ordered.

I struggled against the bitter taste, tears streaming down my face as I choked it down. Every moment felt humiliating, reducing me further into a state of vulnerability.

"There should be a sense of numbness soon. I suggest you sit tight while I take a look at your leg."

The pain in my leg flared as he rolled up my dress, exposing the blood, soaked wound. My breath hitched, and I cried out, panic taking over. "Oh my God, I've been shot!"

"Yeah that's not good." He showed no sympathy merely letting out a small scoff as he grabbed a wet towel from the supplies. Gently, he began to wipe away some of the blood, in an attempt to stem the bleeding.

My mind reeled with shock and confusion as tears streamed down my face, the world spinning around me. "Oh no!"

He pushed me back down onto the bed, his grip firm on my shoulder. "Sit still. The medication should take effect soon."

I screamed when he pressed on the wound, the searing pain unbearable. "Stop!" I cried out, writhing against his touch.

"Be quiet," he snapped, his voice harsh. "Do you want me to fix this or not?"

"What do you mean be quiet. There's a bullet inside my leg!" But he silenced me with a cloth, tying it tightly behind my head.

"Your reaction tells me the bullet is just in the muscle, you'll be fine," he reassured me in a calm tone.

He extracted the bullet, the sound of it clattering onto a metal pan and reached for a needle and thread, The stitching was agony. Each pull of the thread sent a fresh wave of pain through my body, and I sobbed uncontrollably, biting down on the cloth he had shoved between my lips.

When it was finally over, he cut the thread, removed the cloth from my mouth and stepped back. His hands covered in my blood. He peeled off his gloves and tossed them onto the table before meeting my tear filled gaze.

"Are you a doctor?" I ask quietly, out of curiosity.

"No." He replied simply.

It was clear that his hands were suited for a different kind of work than that of a doctor.

His gaze swept over me, lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle with unease.

Before he left, he offered a final directive,"Cover yourself up." he advised, as if acknowledging the vulnerability of my situation. It felt like a warning whether it was for my protection from the others or to keep himself in check, I couldn't tell, and I didn't dare ask.

I glanced down at my blood-streaked dress, the fabric clinging to my body in ways that felt all wrong. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut, I was exposed. My youth, my softness, laid bare for anyone to see.

Long brown curls framed my wide, tear-streaked eyes, and my lips still bore the smudged remnants of a hasty swipe of rosy lipstick. I looked vulnerable. Like prey. Every detail screamed it, I was defenseless, unguarded. It wasn't my fault. I was just a girl. A walking target.

He stood, gathering the supplies with a quiet efficiency that only added to the tension. A pack of medicine landed on the bedside table with a soft thud, his final act before leaving.

He paused at the door, his eyes locking with mine one last time. "You'll live. Just don't run off again. The next bullet will be in your head."

His words hit like a slap, and I flinched as he turned and walked out of the room, leaving me alone in my own house, a place that now felt like a prison.

—

Bound to a chair, I sat trembling, my wrists raw from the restraints. The sun poured through the window, mocking my despair. When the door creaked open, my breath hitched.

"You're awake," the masked man said, stepping inside. "Good. I was starting to think you'd sleep through our little interrogation."

My stomach churned as I looked up at him, my heart pounding in fear, and to my shame, something else.