A/N: This is a bit of longer chapter, so I'll be separating it into...perhaps two chunks?
I hope you're happy with yourself.
My vision's foggy, but already my mind is geared and ready to criticize my actions. I blink, and it's the whirring of a factory that nudges me from my death kiss. I can feel the wounded area. The clean shot through the skull is this burning in my mind and I want to scream, but I can't muster up the strength to even let a little whisper sift through my wind pipe. I cringe and twitch at the bright lights shining just above in the roof of the building, but after adjusting to the brilliant little rays I fidget once and then begrudgingly sit still. My body is cloaked in a baggy-ass jumpsuit at least a size larger than the circumference of my actual body. I'm shackled to a surface, sitting on the floor, butt becoming slowly numb.
“Ugh,” I moan and thrash my head against the wall. Wrong choice. My head smacks against the steel wall and I just sit there, all pathetic-like as the inflamed area surges with a rush of hurt. I move my feet, flexing my toes underneath my socks. At least my combat boots are still there, ripped as they are with fabric falling off the body. I crack my fingers, and then wait.
An hour. That's the estimated time I'm left alone before my existence is acknowledged. A man, height hovering just above six feet and with a face mangled of scraps and scars and scratches, comes to my aid. His boots resembled mine, but clean and attractive and with pin striped pants tucked into them.
“Audrey...Kristovich,” He stumbles a bit over my last name, but finishes it with confident and ease.
“Yes?” I snap out, and bam, instant dose of defensiveness. I keep my eyes down from his face, but feel the clasping of my chains. I hear the snap of the metal, the clash of them hitting the ground, and I flinch. Instant reaction, I guess.
“Up,” He kicks them aside. I finally meet his eyes. On his black button down, his name tag reads 4. Guard 4. It's not one of those silly, kindergarten laminated paper ones. It's gold and hard and engraved. Obviously, he means business.
“I can't,” I say after an attempted sit-up.
“Up,” From behind his back, a leather whip is detached off his belt. From the back, it must look like a tail, dragging directly from his butt...
“Ugh, hold on,” I ease myself up. “Hands?” I ask and he extends a hand sternly with a bitter, almost disgusted expression on his face. Obviously, to touch a dead thing like me is akin to touching crap. I grip the calloused flesh spotting his hands and stumble upwards. I can smell his blood alright, but it's not a good smell. It's doctored, injected with needles, and a bit disgusting from my angle. He turns me around, his face towards my back, and pushes me forward. I want to scowl, but there's just not enough energy to do it, so my face just sits blankly.
I'm lead through flights of stairs and hallways, all quiet and regal. There's gold and vibrant reds dripping off every little thing, from the carpet to the lamps sitting on oak wood. It's so pleasant, so lovely and expensive. The air's cold, falling from air conditioners hanging from the ceiling like stylish little chandlers. As we go down and down and down, that same air starts to feel thicker and the interior design cheapens and eventually falls into the boring office realm of plastic design... white hallways and mixed color carpets.
Guard 4's hand-prints are embedded into my back. I just want to stretch my arms back and slap him a bit.
“Go,” We're stopped outside a door. He lets go of me, obviously certain I wouldn't make a break for it, and swings it open, then pushes me through. This time, I do cast a moderately angered glance at him, but the effect is shattered as I stumble over my boots and barely make it into the room. “Sit.” He points to the row of chair before closing the door and going on with his day. I'm nothing to worry about for him. I sit on the chair nearest to the door, too lazy to move any farther.
On the table in front of me, there's these magazines. These crinkled magazines, they're those checkouts household mags with the pictures of ladies with thin hips and wavy, pumped hair and a big ol' smile. The glossy eyes of the living stare out and at me, and it's obvious these women are not vampires. They live on the outside, a place I haven't been in for a very long time.
The distant sound of an elevator closing wakes my mind up.
