*This story is a little shorter then the others, but I want to let you guys get the action as it comes. I am out of the material that I lost, and everything you see now has seared from my mind and into cyberspace. If anyone notices anything about my editing, or thinks the stories are getting sloppy, just tell me and I'll slow down a little.
All characters are 18+
WARNING This story has no erotic bits, it is pretty much for plot.
Please enjoy!*
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They drugged me after that. The pills they gave me didn't make me feel sleepy. They made me fragmented and dazed. I found myself staring blankly at the carpet under my cheek. Nothing really mattered after the drugs came in. Who honestly gave a shit that my parents were dead? Not me. I no longer cared about my Master, or what was going to happen to me, or that my eyes were slowly swelling shut, and that my breath was whistling laboriously through my bruised and swollen throat.
There was no pain with the drug. I was able to calmly lay there as Hanson decided he wanted another round. I wondered vaguely why he hadn't drugged me first, and then maybe I wouldn't have caused such a fuss.
As my cheek rubbed against the carpet, and Hanson let out low animal-like grunts, I felt nothing but the sensation of being thrown back and forth. It was unpleasant yes, but nothing to raise a fuss over.
I eventually grayed out.
---
I was still doped to the gills when we landed in a commercial airport in Calcutta. They dressed me clumsily. I tried to help, honestly. But my hands kept trying to go through the wrong hole and my feet were clumsy and dead. Hanson kept hitting me. I barely felt the blows, but they made me weaker and disoriented.
When they were done, I felt hot and stifled and uncomfortable in a suit. Cotton work pants, a white cotton shirt, a blue tie and a jacket. The Doctor was wedging my feet into black shoes that fitted poorly.
The last touch were a pair of large ridiculous black sunglasses, to hide the bruising I thought dully.
They walked me through the airport, and never once did anyone stop us. The dingy terminals were filled with brown-skinned men in business suits, international executives babbling into cell phones, women in colorful Saris, and stalls in the middle of a modern terminal that sold fruit and pastries. No one stopped us.
We reached terminal fifteen and we sat in a trio of cracked faux-leather chairs. Them on either side of me. I just sat listlessly. Unable to struggle, or think, or think of struggling. Even calling for help was beyond me, so I sat.
We were loaded onto a plane with stenciled red blossoms on the tail. Air China. We sat with me in the middle. I saw myself in the black surface of a small television screen.
The sunglasses did a shitty job of covering my bruises. They radiated out, covering my cheekbones. My lower lip was swollen and purple and smeared with dried blood. I lapped at it tenderly and tasted the metallic-salt taint of blood.
