Divergent FBI

Chapter Twelve

I wake up, disoriented and groggy. Fluorescent light bulbs glare at my eyes, making me groan and roll over, protecting my sensitive pupils from the harsh lighting. My swollen face is instantly cooled by the dirty white tiles that I still lay on.

How long have I been out? Where'd Peter go? I wonder to myself, relishing the darkness covering my vision. Suddenly my eyes snap open, my mind finally catching a name in my thoughts.

Peter! When I find that son of a bitch, I'm going to freaking kill him!

I've finally adjusted to my new lifestyle without parents, and Peter just had to shatter the sliver of normality I was feeling along with my small but there, feeling of security. My vision goes red but, I continue laying on the cool tile, plotting my revenge. Regretfully, I realize that I need to get moving if I don't want somebody to find me in my battered state.

I'll plan my revenge later.

I decide to begin by wiggling my toes, and feet to make sure I'm not horribly injured. Nothing broken there. I kick my legs up, rotating my ankle and welcoming the usually annoying 'pop' that resonates through the staircase. I broke my ankle a couple years back and my ankle is constantly popping, but the fact that it's popping now means I'm not injured again.

I sit up slowly, stretching my back and arms, glad when nothing other than a throb in my split knuckles hurts.

I feel awfully happy and accomplished by my lack of injuries, however to celebrate my success, I try to take a deep breath.

Big mistake.

The fact that I was knocked out because somebody choked me until I had no oxygen left, should have given me the clue that I would, in fact, have trouble breathing. I just didn't expect this.

I curl back up on the floor, coughing like my life depends on it. I feel blood rush to my face, undoubtably making it redder than a tomato, as my lungs try to grasp what little oxygen seems available. My chest heaves and my hands clutch at my sore throat, as if willing myself to suck in a decent amount of the gas that keeps me alive, so I can stop coughing.

No such luck.

I continue hacking painfully for at least another two minutes, then I get a grip and suck in a few shallow breaths. My head and throat throb and I feel the need to drink like three gallons of water, but I have to get to my apartment first.

Carefully, I pull myself up with the handrail drilled in the wall. My head swims painfully and I feel a headache bloom in the back of my head. I tentatively reach a hand up to the ache, rubbing my hand on it for a moment in hopes of stifling the pain. When I pull my hand away, it's wet with blood. I must have hit it harder on the stair than I thought I did. I pull my hair back up into a bun, covering the injury from view.

The good news is that head wounds normally don't bleed for long, and blood dries pretty fast, so I haven't been passed out on the floor for long.

I stare up the flight of stairs as I contemplate if I want to walk up another four stories, or if I want to hop on an elevator. The stairs look daunting, and my aching body pleads with my brain, trying to make me turn in favor of the elevator, but I think I'm feeling a small cardio workout.

I take the first step of the stairs, ignoring the headache that seems to think now is the right time to get worse. It feels like a knife is digging into my cranium, however it's not anything I can't handle.

I lean heavily on the railing, trying to unload most of my weight on the unyielding metal. It takes a load off my pulsing body, but does nothing for my excruciating headache. Despite my discomfort I tackle the next ten stairs, one step at a time.