Transmitted

File 6

She blinked and shook herself, looked around, disorientated. She was on the street outside, and her hands and arms were covered in blood. What the hell was going on? She took a step and yelped as something sharp dug into her bare foot. Bare? Hadn't she been wearing shoes? She looked down. Both feet were bare and covered in blood. She lifted the injured one and inspected it - a shard of glass stuck out. She pulled it off her foot and tossed it away disgustedly. Then looked around. Where was she? Nowhere near the doctor's office; that was for sure. What the hell was happening to her? Had the men knocked her out and then left her here? Why would they? Hadn't they been about to kill her? She began to shiver. It was cold, and she was only wearing a pair of jeans and a thin short sleeved top. She hadn't brought a coat out with her, expecting to be home before it got dark. Now what to do? Her bag with her phone and her wallet was back in the doctor's office. She didn't know what to do. She turned herself about, trying to look for a familiar landmark. Nothing. Perhaps she could find a bus stop; it might give her a clue. She wiped most of the blood off her exposed skin onto her black jeans (it was less noticeable there) and started walking, but she hadn't gone far before she recognised the area - she was near the bar she'd gone on her blind date to.... Near the place she'd met Mr. Perfect. She laughed at the absurdity. Of course she was - this is where it had all started, so of course she'd somehow end up here again. Didn't criminals return to the scene of the crime? Perhaps she'd find him here, looking for a new vulnerable girl to screw. She was suddenly angry at him, she didn't know why, but somehow she felt that this was all his fault. Everything that had happened to her since she met him. His fault, she was certain. With determination she set out to find him, because somehow she knew the bastard was nearby. That bastard, Lupo.

Yes, that was his name, Lupo. An Italian name. He had mentioned being from Italy originally, hadn't he? She'd avoided thinking of his name, or anything about him until now, hoping to forget that he was just a man, and remember him instead as some kind of god, or spirit, or figment of her own imagination perhaps. But enough was enough. She had to find him and make him take responsibility for her situation. He had to pay for this - she'd nearly died because of him! In her furious, overexcited state, she didn't think to reason why she was so sure that he had something to do with this, she just knew that he did. It had all started going wrong since she met him. Everything. Her work, her health, her life. She felt tears threaten again and dashed them roughly from her eyes. Don't be stupid. She admonished herself. You're not safe yet, not yet.  

It didn't take her long to find him. As expected, he was near the club. Leaning casually up against the wall near the taxi rank, hands in pockets. He was the picture of nonchalance. The prick. He was wearing all black today. A loose thin jersey and black straight leg jeans. His feet were shod in Cuban heeled boots with thick silver buckles. A thick silver bracelet encircled his wrist, and a thick silver chain was just visible at his neck. She bet he was wearing a matching silver ring too. What a fashionable bastard he was. However she couldn't deny that with him all decked out in silver and black he was looking even sexier today.  

He hadn't seen her yet, he was watching a busty red head get out of a taxi and bounce in hooker heels towards the entrance to the bar. Aradia felt absurdly jealous, even though she knew she had no claim on him. She stood there shivering, and wondering how she'd approach him. When she'd had the idea to confront him, she'd been furious, and hadn't worried about what she'd say, but now that her anger had cooled somewhat, she was starting to feel a bit ridiculous. Why was she doing this again? To accuse him of causing her crazy doctor to try to kill her? It sounded insane. But... 

"Oh, so he's done it to you too honey? He's a wanker isn't he?" a sympathetic voice said from beside her. Aradia jumped in surprise and turned to see the speaker. A tall bleach-blonde woman in her early 40s and wearing dangerously high heels stood there regarding her with pity, and sporting a half smoked cigarette.