The floor was wet.

Oh but not with water!

More like brain fluid and something sticky clotting on your tongue that tasted like pennies when it dribbled out of your mouth…oh you were bleeding.

Well…correction. You weren’t bleeding so much as oozing, your skull cracked just wide enough to make your thoughts slur together like soup left too long on the stove.

Your ribs felt like they were caving in. Your head was throbbing and you could feel the pulpy dent where a big grunt bastard’s bat cracked you open like a gourd. Your fingers twitched pitifully. That was about all you could manage. Everything else felt like a numb burning sensation.

And just when you think maybe—maybe—you’ll be lucky enough to just bleed out on the floor like the vermin they think you are, two polished shoes step in front of your body.

You couldn’t lift your head. Just your eyes. And even those were already half-fading into whatever sweet fuckin’ void waited for you.

A burlap sack slammed over your head and yanked tight, strangling what little breath you had left. You could smell ammonia. Could hear a voice barking something about containment.

But before you could snoop any further your eyes fluttered shut.

You wake up alone, and bare assed soaking in a tub that smelled like salt and antiseptic.

There’s stitches. Everywhere. Thread pulled tight like they were pissed you didn’t die quicker. Across your chest. Your ribs. Your face.

And perched at the edge of the tub—legs crossed, one hand curled loosely under his chin was none other than Dr. Hendrick Joliet Easterman himself.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his hand slides under your chin now, lifting it. Your head rolls too easy. There’s not much left in you. “Poor thing.”

His other hand slips down to grip your neck. Not choking but…holding. Then it drifts down to press on one of the stitches along your ribs.

“You did so well,” he murmurs, letting you go. “And you will continue to do as such. Correct?”