I Am No Prey

7- Prey

Once more, focusing on what he was saying, I realized that he was speaking in French. My language. His accent warbled the words slightly, but it was better than his English. I switched to my first language gladly.

"I am not one of you."

His expression was inscrutable. "That's what I'm hoping for."

How cryptic. Well, whatever, I'd find my answer soon enough. But what mattered at the moment was that I needed to know what he did with the file and flash drive.

"Can they understand right now?"

I didn't need to specify who was 'they.' I don't know why I didn't want them to know that he had the file when I was going to be stuck here indefinitely, and it didn't make a difference whether they told the Commander and Everard ended up in trouble.

"No."

Great. "Where's the file?"

He tilted his head to the side, one lip tipping up into a half-grin, as if my question humored him. If my hands weren't numb, I'd punch him hard in the eye or his nose, and it was too straight anyway.

"Why would I tell you?"

"Why not?"

"Give me a reason to trust you, and I will."

I raised my brow. "I don't want your trust, I want to know where you have the file."

He scoffed, and I glared at him. What part of this was funny?

He stood up and walked away.

"Well, you're getting neither."

I sighed. At least they weren't making me one of them, yet. They probably would when they realized that the scars on my back were just that. Scars. From a pervert and not any missing wings.

I turned to the sister doctors. At least, I assumed that they were doctors.

"Did you disagree with him because you didn't think I had wings?"

She shook her head. "No, because if you do, it's going to hurt like hell."

"When?"

"In a few hours."

At least I'd get a long time to brace myself for it. Maybe I'd fall asleep and stay unconscious through it all. Or best yet, whatever Everard was assuming was wrong, and I'd be fine. Somehow, I doubted that.

I watched them return everything they had pulled out before and come back with ten syringes: ten of the same thing. Even I knew that was too much. One after the other, they stuck them in my arm and emptied them. All ten of them.

Then they left. I didn't know how long I stayed there, staring at the wall in front of me. The clock read six-thirty. Was it just a day ago that I was in the airport, on my way here? The day before, when my life had been perfect?

However, with these thoughts swirling around, I eventually drifted off into a fitful sleep.

*******

I awoke with my back on fire. The pain was everywhere, stretching from the spots beneath my shoulder blades to my shoulders and arms, then lower to my legs.

I remembered when I was five, and I fell from a three-story building. I had landed on my side and banged my head on the floor. By all accounts, I should've had a concussion. I remembered being in pain, but the pain itself I forgot. That was the thing about pain – you forgot it after a while. Every time you get a blaring headache, it always hurts during the pain, gladly accompanied by the horrific act of vomiting and pounding the skull. Sometimes you'd be willing to give your most prized possession for the pain to go away. But when you get better, you forget. I wondered if I'd ever forget this.