Chapter Twenty-One

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Chapter Twenty-One

 

 

 

//Narrator’s P.O.V.

Minutes pass and Harry is still in the dark, literally and figuratively.

Where the hell am I? he wonders. His stomach grumbles and he figures it’s been at least half a days since he last had something to eat.

It would really help if he could see.  Thankfully, his nose works better than a normal human's; his hearing as well.

It smells rank and damp wherever he is, so he has to assume that he's been thrown into some sort of basement.  The ground he is lying on is hard concrete so it could very well be an unfinished and abandoned warehouse, how cliche. There is a thin blanket on the ground but it does little to lessen his discomfit. His ears flick back and forth to catch any stray sound but there is none.

His stomach growls again, sounding very much inhuman.

The hybrid boy growls in frustration. Without his eyesight, escape would be impossible.

As if on cue, the door clicks open and Harry curls away from the sound instinctively. "Aw, Harry, I'm not going to hurt you," the man says in a mock-friendly tone. It's true, though; he has no intention of hurting the boy, per se. But what is about to happen to Harry won't be so comfortable. "Dave was necessary to bring you in and it was just chloroform, nothing too harmful.  You might feel light-headed from it, is all. It's sometimes used as anesthesia so that's nothing to worry about. And also, my plans for you  need you to be conscious anyways."

Harry gulps. "What plans?" he asks, already knowing that he won't get an answer.

"You'll find out soon enough.  In the meantime, you may eat."

There's a soft clang as a metal bowl hits the smooth concrete floor. Harry sniffs at it curiously and feels his ears flatten back to his curls because of the strong stench of tuna. He may be part-cat but he isn't particularly fond of that fish. And look, the sandwich is placed inside a doggie bowl alongside some water that's been placed down more gently.

He  wishes that the bastard had untied his hands so that he can at least attempt to drink from the bowl. Alas, no, his hands are still tied behind his back, beginning to throb from being wrenched back into such an unnatural position. So, gritting his teeth, he sniffs out the water before lowering his face and lapping at the cool water that soothes his burning throat [well I don't really know the side effects for being chloroformed] a touch.  He takes the top half of the sandwich, shakes out the tuna inside, and puts lettuce and bun back on it. He can still smell and taste the tuna but it's better that actually eating it.

As he is lapping up some more water--whilst thinking about how lovely it would be to beat the shit out of whoever is behind this--he hears a faint whirring noise. It sounds like the zoom on a camera lens.He wonders if he is under video surveillance.

What was next, a race through a maze?

The thought made him shudder.  What if someone had found out about his 'condition'? That would explain all the crappy goings-on at the moment. He shudders at the thought of being prodded at and experimented upon as if he were a lab rat.

Oh no, they would have to get through him first to do any sort of mellarky on him.

    ^----- ^

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