Not for the first time Cynthia wished she could lip-read.
Marc could have been saying anything from, "I'm sorry," to, "fuck you," for all she knew.
Maybe it could've helped her escape.
Or, then again, maybe not.
Not for the first time Cynthia wished life would stop screwing with her.
The man from the hotel kept threatening her that they were going to put her life back to what it should have been. Cynthia wasn't stupid. She knew she was going to die. It was only a matter of time: people had lived for less than fifteen years before so dying now wasn't too conspicuous. What was was the fact that everyone knew that she loathed life so they were going to assume something was out of the ordinary.
If anything had been ordinary in the first place.
Now she was strapped securely into the back seat of a van with her arms held against her sides by the pervert and a brainless wanker. Great. This. This was life treating her fairly?! Treating her like everyone else?!
She caught a sudden movement at the front of the vehicle with her eye, she wasn't the only one. With a curt nod, the brainless one ripped her sleeve and produced a long, pointy needle.
"Not again." Cynthia said firmly.
"Boss' orders." He replied and jabbed it into her arm.
...
Nothing happened.
YOU ARE READING
Working Progress
ActionA story about a girl whose life doesn't seem to give her any answers, and where life itself wants to control her. Needless to say she tries to rebel against it's plan for her.
