The words ring in Sarah’s head as she’s led down the white hallway, amplified by the smooth walls and narrow passage, sharpened by the cold. What did it mean? What was the drip? No one around here was willing to tell her anything; she didn’t know where she was, why she was there, what she was interviewing for, why they wouldn’t let her go, why she couldn’t see Aunt Verna. They’d laughed at her when she asked for Aunt Verna.
“There’s no Aunt Verna here,” they sneered. “Pets don’t have aunts.”
But no one will tell her what all this “pet” business is about. No one will tell her why she has a series of thin black bars and a number painted on this inside of her wrist—657128—or why she’s in this thin t-shirt and black shorts, or why she has a thick black collar locked around her neck. There’s a box on one side, with little metal stubs on the inside that poke into her skin. It shifts uncomfortably when she breathes or swallows. She doesn’t know what it does, and she’s not eager to find out.
The handler leads her to a new room, or what she thinks is a new room. All of them have looked the same thus far with only small differences. This one, however, has two metal hooks on the ceiling and restraints on the far wall. Near the floor is a short chain and a pair of cuffs.
Sarah stifles a whimper. She doesn’t like the look of any of this. In a way, it reminds her of her basement room, but her basement room wasn’t this bright or unnaturally clean and white—although something in the air underlying the staleness smells distinctly of fear. She’s never smelled fear before, not like this. This room has been used dozens and dozens of times before her, more times than she ever wants to consider. And she’s about to be it’s next victim.
The handler, ever with few words, ushers her toward the wall and shoves her to her knees. “Hands,” is all she says.
Sarah offers them forward, only to receive a smack across the face and her head pressed into the floor. She can’t help it this time, she wails with distress. “Please—”
“Quiet.”
But she can’t keep herself quiet. She cries and whimpers as cold metal closes around her wrists, trapping her hands behind her back. Even when the handler has stepped up and away, Sarah doesn’t dare move from her position. She keeps her head pressed to the cold floor. She doesn’t know what this handler wants, all she can do is guess. She stays in position, just in case. Maybe they’ll go easy on her.
“I need a bag STAT,” the handler says. There’s a crackle and a response Sarah can’t quite make out. She keeps her eyes on the floor, her ears opened to the conversation. “Yeah, Room Nine.” Another crackle, perhaps of confirmation, and then silence. Sarah shuts her eyes, gulping, hoping the handler won’t turn her attention back to her. Up until the smack, she’d been kind; Sarah’s opinion of her has rapidly deteriorated. If someone who she perceives as kind can turn on her in an instant, is there anyone here who won’t do her harm?
This is what I worried about with Aunt Verna, she thinks. I thought she would turn on me like the rest of them. But Verna had surprised her. She’d become the attentive, loving parental figure and protector Sarah had craved for years. Her father had never given her enough; his interactions always left her starved for more.
“Good girl,” the handler says, calmer this time, almost gentle. Her hand ruffles Sarah’s hair, and against her better judgment, she relaxes and finds herself pushing into the hand. Aunt Verna used to ruffle her hair like that, used to stroke her head and hold her close with a gentle palm against the back of her head like that. This hand feels almost like Aunt Verna’s.
Please, Sarah thinks, please don’t hurt me, please. She likes the kindness, the way this feels. Could everything going forward feel like this? She’ll do whatever they want if they just won’t hurt her, she can follow their rules, she can listen to them.
“Oh!” the handler whispers in surprise. Her hand presses harder into Sarah’s head, firm but still gentle. “Very good girl. That’s it, sweetheart, that’s what we like to see. Such a good girl, you are. You’ll make a perfect pet in no time.”
Sarah can pretend that voice is Aunt Verna’s, and she’s so close, but that sweetheart is laced with something and it’s not love. It sets her on edge, but she keeps her head pressed into that gentle touch. Presses so much that she misses the hiss of the door and nearly shoots her head up into empty air when the warmth vanishes. She presses her head back to the floor.
The handler had said she was a good girl—and even as it gives Sarah a sense of relief—she’s doing something right, okay, that’s good—it fills her with a greater sense of dread and disgust. Both of them fill the cavity in her chest left by the absence of the warmth running through her head.
The new conversation is partially drowned out by the thundering of her heart in her ears. It sounds like some small exchange, quiet and quick, and the door is closing before she can grasp any sense of what’s to come. Even if she wanted to ask what was happening, she couldn’t. Her mouth is dry, her tongue is like lead, heavy and uncomfortable in her mouth. Every inch of her trembles. Any words she tries to form come out as choked, unintelligible sounds.
“Shh, shh, shh,” the handler says. “Don’t start that now, sweetie. You’re doing so good. There’s a good girl.”
Sarah bites her lip to quiet any sounds that push at the back of her throat. The handler says she’s doing good. That’s good, right? That means she won’t get hurt? She knows all about getting hurt, with reason and without. The belt scars across her back say everything she can’t.
Something pricks her arm.
Sarah yelps in surprise, tries to wiggle away, the warmth of Aunt Verna fading into a rush of cold fear. “Wait, wait, please, please, what, wait—” Something is in her arm, something sharp and uncomfortable, and the handler is taping it in place while trying to soothe Sarah into compliance, and it’s not that Sarah doesn’t want to comply, but she doesn’t understand, she doesn’t know what’s happening, she doesn’t know what’s in her arm—
I’d get that one on the drip as soon as possible.
This is it, isn’t it? This is the drip?
“Please,” she whines. “Please, please, don’t—”
“Ah, ah, ah,” the handler chides. “Don’t do that, don’t do that. This is just a little something to help you feel better, okay? It’s going to help you relax, sweetie. Be a good girl for me now, alright?”
Sarah lets out a sound that’s somewhere between affirmation and fear. She doesn’t want this, she doesn’t care if she’s supposed to be good, if not fighting is making her good, she doesn’t want to feel better, she wants her Aunt Verna. “Please,” she tries to whisper, but it never comes out.
Instead, it catches at the back of her throat, dying somewhere on her tongue, as something cold and warm and cold again rushes into her veins. She can feel it, she swears, she can feel it slipping into her bloodstream. It feels unnatural and uncomfortable, and she wants it out. But her movements, her attempt to shuffle around are sloppy and futile; she falls against the wall, sliding down to the floor. The lights look different when she looks up. Still bright, but slightly fringed around the edges. The handler’s face is blurry. Her head spins.
Wrong! Her body screams. This is wrong! Everything about this is wrong! Wrong wrong wrong wron g wro ng
Aunt Ver—Aunt Verna…oh, God…
A wave of nausea hits her. Every thought she could ever have flees from her mind. This isn’t making her feel better, this is making her feel worse.
What is this? Her eyes search for the handler, her tongue searches for words. Both searches come up empty.
“That’s better,” the handler says, somewhere off in the distance, but she’s not really there, is she? Then why is her voice the clearest one in Sarah-Sar-Sar—her head?
What’s happening? Why can’t I think? Why can’t I remember anything?
She groans.
“See, sweetie, isn’t that better?”
No… She rolls her head against the wall. ‘S’ not better. ‘S’ worse…
“None of those pesky memories in your head now, alright, sweetheart?”
No, she tries to say, in protest, her head rolling again, but the handler’s hand is on her head again, ruffling her hair. Don’ touch… She doesn’t have the strength to reject it.
well, I had my surgery yesterday morning and I'm now in the hospital on an IV pumped up on morphine with my mum icing my face! I'm not in much pain thanks to the IV and my facial numbness, but I am very swollen and it's gonna get worse over the next two weeks before gradually going down. yesterday I was too nauseous to drink anything more than a few sprays of water in a syringe: my throat and stomach were full of blood and I threw some of the blood up (but not much, and I think it was mostly blood that had just dripped down into my mouth and upper throat from my nose). today I drank a cup and a half of water with a syringe, as well as a bit of apple juice. I just can't believe I did this shit holy fuck. this whole recovery thing is gonna suck absolute ass but hopefully it'll be worth it!
A few tufts of dark hair could be seen poking in from Gwen’s doorway. It was preceded by the squeaks of a set of wheels. But, the individual those features belonged to was hesitant to enter the room.
This was Momotaro, who had managed to slip the notice of the nurses that were on duty. He had one hand hanging on to a metal pole, which held this bag that had to be connected to him.
Momotaro did not like the bag, because it meant pokey pokey, every winter night since the medical team “figured out how to keep his health stable”.
But the bag on wheels would not stop him from seeing the newest patient in the manor’s hospital ward. She was considered important to him...though he was still rather timid around everyone.
"Hello [Momotaro], I have heard you have been [unwell] during these cold months." The android has come to visit Momo in the hospital, how nice. He seems a bit distracted by all the new sights before him but still comes over to sit in the chair at Momotaro's bedside. "Have you been keeping warm, [Momotaro]?"
Admittedly, it was startling to see a robot come through the door. Momotaro wasn’t sure if he recognized the being. Realizing the blanket cloak came loose, he pulled it back over himself and tried to appear composed to the visitor.
“...ung.”
Although the blanket cloak’s warmth was slightly compromised by the IV in his arm, those two components together were helping him feel, not wilted. His overall appearance, appeared to be like a swaddled baby that was sitting up. But there was enough looseness for the IV drip to slip through, and for the boy to adjust himself or grab something.
He was still unsure why a robot, or anyone would visit him though. Did Doctor Slate put them to this...? That was the doctor in charge of his status...
well they gave me a liter of fluids, some antibiotics, and some steroids thru an IV. they gave me a heavy duty penicillin prescription too. i think its because im so prone to pneumonia and strep can go into the lungs
my body hurts and the cold weather isnt helping at all. and my ears hurt so i cant even listen to taz or mbmbam. all i can do is lay here
