「 First thing his mind registers is the incredibly intrusive urge to throw up. He wishes it wasn't a feeling he knew oh-so-well, but him and nausea had become pretty damn well-acquainted over the years. 」
「 Second. 」 「 The room is spinning. Blurry. He can't tell the floor from the walls, because it's all melting together in a great big, dirty gray mess. Concrete, is all Raymond can muster to think at the moment. Cold. He's freezing- even with the hoodie and the scuffed boots- and God, if his tongue would cooperate right now, the welder would have more than a few artistic combinations of carefully picked cusses and swears pouring out his mouth right now. 」 「 ... He opts for a quiet groan instead. 」
"--ah, he's on his way."
「 Raymond's eyes snap to the man in the corner. The familiar glow of a phone screen lights up his chest, his arm-- but, hell, even if it somehow did reach this guy’s face, Raymond wouldn't be able to tell fuckin' Marilyn Monroe from Marilyn Manson with the shit they'd pumped into him. It should've been wearing off. Why wasn't it wearing off? 」
"You just hold tight, Raymond Kenney. No funny business."
「 As if he could. He was strapped to a goddamn chair, with tranqs bugging up his whole goddamn system. 」
@djxd3f4lt