Sweet Dreams, Irene
“In pain. My head and ankle throbbed in unrelenting, independent rhythms. I could hear voices, but passed out again before I could make sense of them.The next time around I was able to concentrate better. Three shafts of light were coming into the room from small windows at the top of one wall. Turning my head caused the room to swim. I fought off a wave of nausea.I tried to focus on my surroundings once again. I was lying on a thin, bare mattress, the kind you might find on a very old foldout c...ouch. No, more like a bunk bed at summer camp. About an inch-and-a-half thick. It was musty-smelling and had skinny black-and-white stripes on it. It was on the floor. A bare wooden floor.The room was small, about eight by ten feet. There was one door, beneath which a thin line of light crept in. A metal bucket sat in one corner. My toilet, I supposed. Nothing more—the bucket, the mattress, and me.The gag was off and my hands were no longer tied. My mud-soaked coat was gone, as were my shoes. My right ankle was the size of a softball.MoreLess
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