Subject: [OTL]: [Broken Roads] Interlude, posted for Em Date: Thu, 10 Feb 2000 20:24:30 -0800 From: Shaianne PeriHawk This doesn't belong to me, it belongs to one beautiful young lady who goes by Em-Spider, araignee, whatever you prefer, her email address is mspider@subreality.com, feedback her, she is a talented young lady. This story does take place in the Broken Roads series, Ana, Kim, and Stone are mine, all others are not, don't sue any of us, we have NO money. Interlude by Em Here y'are... ---------------------- I remember I dropped something --I don't remember WHAT-- in the hall on my way in. And I remember I went out to get it. And I remember a little prick in the back of my neck. That's all, though, and I'm awake here, and my mouth feels like it's full of cotton balls. Drugged. I've only been drugged once before. Not pleasant. And that time I woke up on the street with all my stuff gone (except my clothes, thank goodness). This time, it's a shiny little metal box with a few air holes, as far as I can tell. . . Cold, too. My socks and sandals are gone, and my shirt, AND my shorts. No wonder it's cold. The a/c is up full blast, which isn't really a surprise since we're in --I THINK-- Florida, but sports bras and undies aren't exactly reknowned for their warmth. Got goosebumps all over my arms and legs. Brr. Whatever I dropped can't be worth this. ---- This is stupid. This is really, really stupid. I'd call it stupid, but I wouldn't want to insult stupid people. And I have decided that without a doubt this is NOT worth what I dropped, even if it's a book. (That's unlikely, of course. Probably a little bar of soap or something.) Why? Because getting pistol-whipped is NOT fun. Neither is getting hit with someone's hand after being pistol-whipped. And after THAT, being pistol-whipped again, then chucked into a cold metal box, is even LESS fun. My bruises have bruises. My scrapes have scrapes. And not a band-aid in sight. Not even the red-head who's sharing the cell with me has one. (She's the woman Ana and I saw outside a day or ten ago. Guess I found her. Ana'd be proud if she were here.) ---- And again, doubleplusungood. I wish I had a good book, and a big soft pillow, and a blanket, and some coffee. And I wish I could find out what time it is, but they won't tell me. The guards, I mean, outside my metal box. I asked them, you know. I asked them. They hit me. I asked the man who hit me with his hands. He hit me too. They all hit me before, sure, but they hit me more then, until I passed out. I can't tell where I am, WHEN I am. I could be anywhere. Anywhen. Anyhow. . . Ana should find me any minute. Any minute. Any hour. Any day. Any day now. Any day now I'll be out of here. Any day now I'll have new clothes. Any day now someone will wash the caked blood out of my cuts and clothes. Any day now I'll have a nice hot cup of coffee. Any day now I'll be able to sleep. Yeah. Any day now. ---- I don't have a clue how long it's been. It seems like forever, but with my concept of time, it's probably been about half an hour. Since they threw me back in there from last time, I mean. I think my nose is broken. I think so because the last time Zartan --that's his name, he told me-- hit me in the nose, I felt it sort of. . .crumple. And boy, did it BLEED. I think I have black eyes, too. They gave me some food on a really shiny plate, and I could see myself in it. Sorta. Ugly. My hair is a mess, all full of blood and stuff and sticking up everywhere. . . Forget my HAIR, _I_ am a mess. Even if I can't really see my face, I can feel the crust on it. And I can see the rest of me. Too many bruises for my taste. Too many cuts. And I can still feel where they hit me. ---- They've brought me out and down the hall again. Red Shirts. Wasn't that some old Italian liberation movement, or something? But these guys have red shirts. Red pants, too. And red boots. Too much red. At least they're color-coordinated while they smack me around and drag me down the hall to see stupid Zartan again. They're all color-coordinated when they chuck me in there and let him hit me. They're color- and attitude-coordinated. Probably all trained the same place. Probably all in the same class. It's STUPID. And it's been forever. Where's Ana? Blast, where IS she? Is she even worried? Does she even care? I'm not sure she's even going to come and find me. After all, it's been a long time. Maybe she forgot. Maybe I'll stay here forever and every single day just get beat up and beat up and beat up again. I can hardly walk, y'know. I can't do this much longer. Ana? Can you hear me? Are you out there? Please, Ana. Hear me. ---- THIS IS SO _STUPID!_ I want to go HOME. I wish I'd never left Chicago. I HATE Florida! I HATE this metal cell! I HATE the hall! I HATE Zartan's room! AND I. HATE. _ZARTAN_. I HATE _STONE._ I HATE _CASH._ I even (almost) hate ANA. I HATE, HATE, HATE, HATE, _HATE_ this crap! I HATE IT! I HATE IT! I HATE IT! . . . . . . . . .did I mention I want to go home? Yeah. I think I did. ---- So. How long now? I haven't seen my redheaded roomate for hours now. (Or has it only been minutes? I can't tell anymore.) They took her, said something about a fight. And I heard them say something about Ana. But definitely "Lyon." Or something like that. I'm willing to hope it was "Lyon." End Interlude. =====