VIOLENT DELIGHTS¹ ━━ John Murphy

𝖝𝖛. Without

𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖙

SHE WAKES with a start.

There's a dull throbbing in her skull. Even worse is the fire burning in her upper thigh, one that demands to be felt. Utterly scorching, it eats away at her. It almost feels like it's pulsating, pounding like a seething heart of heat.

She's thirsty. Her throat feels raw. But she's not ready to move, not yet. She needs to gather the thoughts that have flown away from her like a flock of birds. Everything feels jumbled up and confusing; she can hardly make sense of anything. And that pain in her leg! It won't go away - it feels unlike any other wound she's ever had, and she's had a lot. Stab wounds feel like explosions, arrow wounds feel like something burrowing beneath your skin. But this - this - is a new demon altogether.

That's right. It would be. She'd never been shot before.

Well. It's not a particularly pleasant feeling.

Sagging back, she tries to think over what's happened. Together it all feels like a fever dream, but the stabbing bullet wound is a kind reminder that all of it was real.

Glass opens her eyes suddenly. There is no sun.

She's not dead, is she?

Suddenly, she can't stay in bed any longer. She is restless and maybe panicking, just a tiny bit. None of this is recognizable to her. No waxen candlelight, no thick fur coverlets, just perfectly smooth walls and equally perfect smooth floors. Flawless. Shiny, even. Enough so that when she looks down over her strange bed made from a silly, hollow-ish material, that she can see her own reflection.

It's not great. A little gross, even. Her hair looks greasy. Moving to stand, Glass just as quickly realizes that something is attaching her to the bed and it nearly sends her crashing down. A strange tube going into her arm, hooked to a baggie with liquid.

OK - what the fuck?

Now she's really panicking. Just where the hell is she? All she remembers is the manic way Finn had looked at her, his eyes dark and murderous with wrath, his cheeks damp with sorrow before he fucking shot her. Then. . . nothing.

Then she woke up here. Wherever here is.

Yanking the tube from her arm, she's surprised when a needle comes out and even more surprised when it burns. There's a small dot of blood and the coppery smell is strong in the weird sunless, scentless room.

The tube flings backwards and the baggie is attached to some metal pole with wheels that crashes back. Soundlessly. How odd. As if things couldn't get any weirder.

Gleaming in soft yellow light is the ceiling, though Glass has no idea what that's all about. She doesn't care. This time when she stands, nothing holds her back, and her feet hit the freezing floor before she sways and then instantly topples. It's all she can do to grab herself on the bed railing to stop from hitting the floor.

Breathing deeply, she brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, starts to stand and -

And. . . why can't she hear anything?

Freezing, she ruffles her hair again. No, not an illusion. There's nothing there.

Frantically, now, she pushes the bed backwards with her hands. Granted, it doesn't go very far, but there's not a single noise.

A whimper escapes her throat. Maybe. She doesn't hear that, either.

Trying to dig her fingers into the hideously perfect walls, she attempts to claw her way back to her feet. Lifting her eyes slowly, she meets her gaze in the mirror that overlooks her bed. She hates it. Loathes it. The girl staring back at her does not have dark eyes that glitter with fury, she has dark eyes that glitter with terror.