Join or die.
That is the phrase that runs New America. After a failed presidency, the US was left to the hands of the most ruthless gangs and mobs who saw an opportunity and took it. State lines were blurred, mob-cities were created, and territories...
CHAPTER WARNINGS:Kidnapping, assault, sexual harassment, language
For a long time since she left, Dalia dreamt of his hands. She dreamt of his slender fingers, and the nimble way he frequently moved them across her body. She dreamt of the calluses that lined each seam, of the peeling skin of his palms that would scratch against her thighs. She dreamt of the grip he used--of the language he conveyed with it. Dominance. Care. Adoration. Fear. Strength. Need. Love.
The hands on her now were not the ones she dreamt of. They were too soft, and they grasped at her body like a fumbling teenage boy trying to get rid of his virginity. Granted--she was struggling just as much, but the hands were all over her and she wanted them off and she wanted them gone.
Dalia couldn't see who was trying to grab her. It was too dark for that, and she swore at herself for choosing to sleep in whatever fucking hole she found herself in this time. They were grappling at her, at her arms, at her feet--but she struggled too much for them to figure out how to stabilize her.
She was close to freeing herself, her leg flailing and making contact--a male grunt followed--and as soon as she rolled herself onto her stomach to crawl away, more hands found their way onto her being. One, two, three, four hands worked together to join her hands as well her feet.
It's then that Dalia decides to scream--she's angry at forgetting that she had a fucking mouth to use--and almost immediately something is placed over her nose and mouth before she's finally dragged out. It's the that she sees the faces of her captors in the vague moonlight.
There's about two--both pale with shaved heads from what she can tell. She holds eye contact with the one holding the chloroform over her nose for what seems like forever. It takes them a moment to realize what was happening.
"The bitch isn't inhaling," one of them whispered to the other.
The other grunted in agreement, and before she knew what was happening Dalia saw a fist swing towards her head.
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When she wakes up, there's concrete everywhere. Freezing, damp, rough concrete that sits against her cheek, making her perception of the world sideways. Dalia can feel that she's unbound now, but there's something that circles her left ankle heavily.
