Coming Undone

Chapter 24

The smell of sour sweat and the throb of a sour stomach hammered at Runt's sanity as he clung to the cold, stainless steel rim of cell's toilet, panting as he started to brace for another dry heave. His saliva long dried up and his courage thoroughly evaporated, Runt's wilting body trembled weakly as terror coaxed the last strength he had out of his veins.

Runt blinked away a few tears and sniffed, trying to inhale and prepare for what was coming.

"Uuugggghhhh..."

Aching muscles started to contract.

Runt felt another tear roll down his cheek as a rush of burning heat saturated his body. Hadn't he been squeezed enough? Hadn't the police tightened the handcuff enough, leaving dark rings on his wrists? Hadn't the heartless interrogator wrung enough information and tears out of him? Hadn't they taken his blood, his fingerprints, his papers and his clothes?

Did they have to take his dignity?

His sanity?

Runt's stomach seized up and collapsed, his abdomen hardening like rock as his back arched. His head lurched into the bowl as yet another empty blast of fear-induced nausea found its way out.

Hot spit pooled under his tongue as his lungs emptied in a weak hiss and his final push ended in a sour gurgle. Runt's muscles relaxed, dropping him onto the floor as he moaned and tried in vain to swallow the dregs of his stomach before they again tainted his mouth and throat with searing acid.

"You about done heaving?"

Leave me alone.

Runt didn't have the heart to respond to his cellmate. He just curled a little on the concrete, his imagination running to the darkest corners of his mind as his hope circled the drain.

This was every Springer's nightmare. Trapped in a rough concrete cell with only water to drink, the greenish fluorescent bulb above casting a rotten light on an even more rotten situation. In any other system, Runt would have curled up and waited nervously for his lawyer, or perhaps his employer. In some systems, he could even expect to see a visit from the embassy.

But this... this was New Medina.

Even seeing a jury was unlikely.

"Hey," his cellmate, a Burrower, said, "I asked if you're done yet."

Runt managed to pry his eyes open and toss a glance at the ochre-hued inmate. It wasn't a question. It was a demand.

Runt's already defeated body was in no place to ignore a command. He'd spent the whole hellish night obeying commands from the police, enduring disgrace upon disgrace. From the forced blood draw to the confiscation of his last refuge in his suit, Runt had lost his world piece by piece.

And even if he could have put the pieces back together, it wouldn't have helped. Trapped in a cell and imprisoned in his own mind, there was no last resort.

Just this.

A stormy wait before he submerged for the last time.

Runt slid onto the cot and curled his tail around himself, pressing his knees into his chest and shaking. The pounding in his head just wouldn't quit, reminding him that each heartbeat inside this place brought him one beat closer to his last.

He'd failed. Thoroughly and utterly.

He'd failed Quixxa. Her future had rested on his shoulders, shoulders that sagged and shook. Runt felt another wave of violent nausea start to overtake his body as Quixxa's voice played over in his mind.