Drug Lord

Chapter XI

Thirty minutes or so pass before I hear the jingle of keys on the other side of the door. After both locks are unlatched, a woman who looks to be in her late thirties steps through silently. I presume she is the physician Ever had mentioned, and her demeanor tells me that I am correct. Her black hair is knotted into a tight bun, which seems to fit her tired face quite well, as if she looks like this interminably. She's wearing a blue blouse tucked into a worn pair of black dress pants. I question silently whether or not she has ever laughed before in her life. There are certainly no lines indicating so. 

Does she know that I'm being held hostage? I almost instantly ask for help, but after a moment's worth of contemplation, I decide not to. The witch obviously knows what's going on. I am handcuffed to a bed for Christ's sake.  She walks to the desk, placing a briefcase in front of her. 

"Can you tell me how much you remember of the accident?" She asked without looking up from the now open briefcase. 

So much for introductions. 

I consider her question for longer than a moment, squeezing my eyes tightly together. Tiny snippets of memories begin to surface in my brain, each one lacking useful information, forming new ripples of pain throughout my head. 

"Almost nothing. I remember being in my door way, but that's basically it. Do you think I have a concussion?" 

She closes the briefcase, grabbing the rolly-chair from under the desk and walked towards me, holding what looks to be a stack of papers and a small flash light. 

"That's what I'm here to find out." 

"Do you make house-calls often?" I ask sarcastically. 

Still without making eye contact, she responds boredly, "Only if the situation calls for it."

"Right, so you make sure kidnapped victims are in mint condition for their kidnappers? Your paycheck must be killer." 

This time she brings her eyes to mine. They're the color of shit.

Don't get me wrong, I love brown eyes - but these eyes aren't just brown. They are vacant, cold, shit colored eyes. 

"Please, enough. I have very strict instructions to discuss only your health. I'm going to ask you a series of questions and go through a couple of exercises with you to determine how well you're functioning in areas like coordination and reflex."

An hour later, shit-for-eyes left. It was determined that I'm concussion free. She gave me several strong pain relievers, and I swallowed them only after she Google-searched the pill numbers individually and showed me the results. I honestly was wary of trusting the medicine she'd prescribed, but my request was actually solely based on a plan to ransack her phone, kick her in the face and call for help. 

The plan did not go well. My reflexes checked out fine, but apparently hers were better. 

After the nameless physician's departure, I find myself fighting a fierce battle with sleep. Though I am still thirsty for knowledge on how I ended up here,  I need more than anything to form some sort of escape plan. However, this is very hard to do when you feel like you've been up for three days getting punched periodically in the back of the head. The extremely soft bed I'm chained to doesn't help much either. 

I'm ashamed to say I was out in less than fifteen minutes. 

-                      -                       -                      -                    -                    -                   -                       -          

Moments after waking up, I remember everything. Furious was an understatement. 

This whole time I have been worried about Shawn, wondering if he, too, had been taken. Now in complete consciousness, I've realized that he's why I'm here in the first place. He had borrowed some grand amount of money from Kingsley and never paid it back, lying to me about the deadline. He left me to tend to the party because it was too late to cancel it, and of course, he wouldn't attend because he knew Ever would most likely show up. That's why he sent Dylan: to face repercussions.  

What he didn't anticipate was that the party would be over by the time Ever arrived - that it would be me left to deal with the consequences. As always. Now here I am, chained to a bed, maybe awaiting death, while he's most likely out partying in a different state all together. 

Beautiful. Just beautiful. 

I sit up from the bed, taking in the room with new, less confused eyes. It is still just as charming. I notice now that it has just been remodeled. It's had to have been. Everything looks to be brand new and there's even a faint scent of fresh carpentry. 

Was this room remodeled just for me? 

I recalled the rest of what I'd seen of the building and came to the conclusion that yes, it was. 

An ill feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. The decor is my taste, give or take. He'd known that somehow.  He had put this room together prior to taking me, in hopes that I'd.. what? Adore it? Forget the fact that I was being kidnapped and become comfortable in this setting? 

This is so sick. 

I spend the next ten minutes trying desperately to detach myself from the bed, having no luck whatsoever. The perimeter of the head-board is some type of metal that seems to be unbreakable. I stand up and sit back down, backwards, so that I'm now facing the front portion of the bed. I move my feet until the coldness of the border is under my arches, and I pull my whole body as hard as I possibly can. This goes on for for five more minutes, unsuccessfully. Still yet, I don't give up. 

Any minute now this whole thing is gonna break apart piece by piece, I lie to myself. 

"What the hell are you doing?" a deep voice barks angrily from behind.