battle with her stomach.
She lost.
When the spasms passed, she collapsed wearily on her bunk, but the tiny cell wreaked and the awful smell nearly made her throw up again. Grabbing her pillow, she covered her face, breathing through the fabric. Slowly, the urge to puke passed, but she wasn’t certain whether she merely became accustomed to the smell, or if the air circulating through the cell had finally whisked most of the odor away.
She suspected the former.
After her stomach ceased to revolt, she began to wonder what, if anything, she was to do about the body on the floor.
28
Would they think she’d done it?
Guilt teased at her. No amount of trying to reason it away helped. Even though she knew very well she couldn’t have wished the woman’s death upon her, she couldn’t dismiss the comment she’d made just before the woman choked any more than she could forget the sentiment that inspired it.
Despite everything, the drug eventually took the upper hand again and she drowsed. A metal scraping much like she’d heard before woke her.
“Fuck! You crazy bitch!”
The accusation in the voice jolted through Lena and she pushed herself up on the bunk just as the door to the cell opened. “I din’ touch’er,” Lena gasped, her voice still slurred from the drug. “She choked.”
The guard’s eyes were condemning. After a moment, he knelt, grasped one of the woman’s feet and dragged the body out, slamming the door again. Lena had just begun to breathe a sigh of relief when the door opened once more. Two dark figures seemed almost to fly toward her in the dimness. Something stabbed into her hip and almost immediately dizziness and blackness swallowed her up.
At first Lena thought the movement she sensed wasn’t actual movement but the effects of the drug in her system. She finally realized, though, that blood pounded against her temples. She roused enough to lift her head. She was hanging face down across a wide back. When the blackness parted a little, she saw floor and, just a little to one side, a wall sprouted from the floor.
She was in the hallway again. She realized almost instantly that they were taking her back to the interrogation room. Fear battled the drug, but the drug had too hard a grip on her to allow apprehension to take dominance.
The man stopped and the sensation of falling washed over her. Instinctively, Lena began flailing her arms and legs in an attempt to catch herself. The guard, either under the impression that she was trying to fight him, or simply annoyed by her attempt to catch her balance, let go of her, leaning down to punch her a few times when she hit the floor in an ignominious heap.
The blows barely registered except to disorient her further. She continued to flail around as she was dragged up, deposited in a chair, and strapped down.
“Feel more like chatting with us today?”
A day had passed?
How many days had she been here, she wondered?
Her mind wandered along that path for a time, trying to put together enough information to give her some idea of the time she’d been incarcerated. A sharp slap on one cheek that made her head fly sideways and her neck crack emphasized the question the man repeated. “Give us names.”
Names? Lena thought blankly. “Wha...?”
A hand grabbed her jaw bruisingly and a face swam into her view. “Don’t play stupid with me!” he growled, spattering her face with flecks of spittle. “Your father was right in the middle of the rebellion.”
“Fauder?” Lena repeated blankly. She could barely even remember her father. It had almost seemed to her that she and Nigel had been alone forever--scrounging for food, sleeping in trashcans--until Morris had found them and took them home.
“Frank Morris,” he growled, obviously frustrated.
29
Grief descended upon her as suddenly and devastatingly as if it was a thing of substance rather than pure emotion. Her face crumpled. “Morris. Wa’you do t’him?”
He
She lost.
When the spasms passed, she collapsed wearily on her bunk, but the tiny cell wreaked and the awful smell nearly made her throw up again. Grabbing her pillow, she covered her face, breathing through the fabric. Slowly, the urge to puke passed, but she wasn’t certain whether she merely became accustomed to the smell, or if the air circulating through the cell had finally whisked most of the odor away.
She suspected the former.
After her stomach ceased to revolt, she began to wonder what, if anything, she was to do about the body on the floor.
28
Would they think she’d done it?
Guilt teased at her. No amount of trying to reason it away helped. Even though she knew very well she couldn’t have wished the woman’s death upon her, she couldn’t dismiss the comment she’d made just before the woman choked any more than she could forget the sentiment that inspired it.
Despite everything, the drug eventually took the upper hand again and she drowsed. A metal scraping much like she’d heard before woke her.
“Fuck! You crazy bitch!”
The accusation in the voice jolted through Lena and she pushed herself up on the bunk just as the door to the cell opened. “I din’ touch’er,” Lena gasped, her voice still slurred from the drug. “She choked.”
The guard’s eyes were condemning. After a moment, he knelt, grasped one of the woman’s feet and dragged the body out, slamming the door again. Lena had just begun to breathe a sigh of relief when the door opened once more. Two dark figures seemed almost to fly toward her in the dimness. Something stabbed into her hip and almost immediately dizziness and blackness swallowed her up.
At first Lena thought the movement she sensed wasn’t actual movement but the effects of the drug in her system. She finally realized, though, that blood pounded against her temples. She roused enough to lift her head. She was hanging face down across a wide back. When the blackness parted a little, she saw floor and, just a little to one side, a wall sprouted from the floor.
She was in the hallway again. She realized almost instantly that they were taking her back to the interrogation room. Fear battled the drug, but the drug had too hard a grip on her to allow apprehension to take dominance.
The man stopped and the sensation of falling washed over her. Instinctively, Lena began flailing her arms and legs in an attempt to catch herself. The guard, either under the impression that she was trying to fight him, or simply annoyed by her attempt to catch her balance, let go of her, leaning down to punch her a few times when she hit the floor in an ignominious heap.
The blows barely registered except to disorient her further. She continued to flail around as she was dragged up, deposited in a chair, and strapped down.
“Feel more like chatting with us today?”
A day had passed?
How many days had she been here, she wondered?
Her mind wandered along that path for a time, trying to put together enough information to give her some idea of the time she’d been incarcerated. A sharp slap on one cheek that made her head fly sideways and her neck crack emphasized the question the man repeated. “Give us names.”
Names? Lena thought blankly. “Wha...?”
A hand grabbed her jaw bruisingly and a face swam into her view. “Don’t play stupid with me!” he growled, spattering her face with flecks of spittle. “Your father was right in the middle of the rebellion.”
“Fauder?” Lena repeated blankly. She could barely even remember her father. It had almost seemed to her that she and Nigel had been alone forever--scrounging for food, sleeping in trashcans--until Morris had found them and took them home.
“Frank Morris,” he growled, obviously frustrated.
29
Grief descended upon her as suddenly and devastatingly as if it was a thing of substance rather than pure emotion. Her face crumpled. “Morris. Wa’you do t’him?”
He
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