It was a week before I realized I wasn’t alone.
I was dragged from the cell late one night and strapped to a
cool steel table. The attendants all had tattoos on their arms--black glyphs of
some nature.
Across from me in a dentist chair was the man I’d seen
yelling at his baby on the train. How long ago had I seen him? It hasn’t been
long now? Or has it?
The man was gagged. Some intravenous prink drip was trailing
out of his left arm. One of the man’s eyes had been removed. He was slouched
over. He had to be unconscious, but I thought I saw his still live eye flash towards me
once.
One of the tattooed men stuck me with a needle. It hadn’t occurred
to me that I’d been drugged since capture. No point in panicking now.
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