Daddy [Mommy Sequel]

Chapter 3: Not Again

I grabbed her, dragging her away.

No, this can't be happening. Not again. We can't be trapped here--we can't be turned into what they are. We need to get out.

This feeling was all too familiar as they neared us. I picked Rosabeth up, stumbling down the stairs as they watched us, not seeming to want to follow. I ran and threw open the door with one hand, running out as fast as I could. This can't happen again. I worked so hard to get out--why me? Why have I gotten myself in this kind of situation again?

I was nearing the entrance, when I suddenly felt a shock of pain jab it's way into my lower back. I yelped, dropping Rosabeth as my body broke out in a line of spasms and twitching. I gasped as tears flooded through my eyes, recognizing the feeling. It was electricity--I was being electrocuted. But how? From where?

Rosabeth began to scream in fear, backing away from me. I could feel my eyes begin to roll back in my head as I reached behind my back, aiming towards where the pain all started. my fingertips began to burn and my knees began to lock up as I squirmed on the ground. I grabbed whatever it was, the pain now shooting up to my fingertips. I tried to rip it off, but it seemed as though it was implanted in my skin.

I shuddered, drool beginning to leak from my mouth. Could this be the work of Mommy? Could she have found me and taken me here? I watched in helpless horror with dimming eyes as shoes stepped in front of my vision. White, polished shoes that filled my mouth with disgust. I was blacking out from the shock of the electricity running through my veins, and before I lost consciousness, I heard the words of the man who stepped in front of me.

"Is this the one? Is this one of the children that managed to get away...Harper Evans?"

***

Bright lights, a cold room—the smell of bleach. Even beneath my heavy eyes, I knew what the room surrounding me looked like. The lasting buzz of whatever electrocuted me still ran through my fingertips and up in my teeth. My chest felt heavy and cold, and my jaw was clenched shut. My throat stung.

I refused to open my eyes.

I didn't know what my first move would be. This situation was all too familiar, and I could feel dread beginning to rise. I needed to make a plan before I even dared to get up. Before I dared to alert anyone of my rising consciousness. My mouth watered with anxiety, and in an urge to choke on my own saliva, I swallowed.

My throat shot up in agonizing pain, and it felt as though the walls of my larynx were set on fire. My mouth flew open and my heavy eyelids shot up and I heavily gasped in pain. Why does my throat hurt so bad? I held my neck as though it would provide some comfort and the drilling pain rocked through my head. My neck...my throat...why does it hurt so much?

Tears dotted my eyes as I breathed hollowly through my nose, trying to ease the pain. It was swelling through my whole body, and I quickly came to the fact that something was wrong with me. I stumbled off of the hard surface I was on, looking back to see that it resembled one of those cold doctors tables you sit on for appointments. Just as I expected, the entire room was bright, and cold, and white.

It was a decently sized room, but it seemed to be a waste of space as the only thing in the room was the table I was on, and a mirror across from me. Now that I was standing, the smell of bleach was stronger—the scent stinging my throat as it ran down my air pipes. I held onto my skin where my throat was stinging—only for it to burn more, sending my head in a painful fit. I quietly sobbed, hissing and rubbing my hands together in pain.

Something was wrong.

I happened to look down at the hands that were holding my throat. The warm hands. The sticky, warm hands—to see thick, red liquid coating my palms and oozing between my fingers. I let out a silent scream as I raced to the mirror, my face going pale and my legs going weak.

Blood coated my lips and ran out of my mouth. And where my throat burned and stung— as though it was on fire— was a vertical slice down my throat. It was oozing blood and I could practically see the tissue inside. I gasped and backed away, tripping and falling on my back. Pain shot through my spine, and I could feel more hot, sticky blood ooze out of the wound.

I was right. I was right all along. I'm not sure what happened, or what I'm doing here—but I'm certain of one thing. These people...they were going to kill me.

I sobbed, oblivious as to why I was still awake, or alive. The pain was agonizing, and the blood seeping out of me should've already knocked me out. I struggled to stand up, my legs beginning to feel weak. It must be the smell of bleach keeping me up. It's so strong...it's hurting my head.

I stumbled back to the table, leaning against it for support. If I learned anything from my time with Mommy, it was how to stop from bleeding out.

I struggled out of my shirt, crying when the fabric brushed my wound. My senses were getting blurry, and the feeling was gone from my fingertips—the sight shaking from my eyes. I attempted to wrap the cloth around my wound to clot the blood—but the material only stuck and seeped into the slice on my throat.

I sobbed, sitting on the table and shaking in my attempt to stop the wound from bleeding. I tried to stick the fabric on my wound again, my hand shaking and barely holding the shirt in my hand. My chest ached with every breath, and I could feel myself struggling to inhale. No matter how hard I tried, the shirt stuck and soaked in the blood that was bleeding out. Work...work...work—

Suddenly, I could feel a cold draft surround me, and I looked down to see I wasn't wearing anything at all. I was completely naked. And the shirt...the shirt was a paper hospital gown. I sobbed, admitting defeat. I let the 'fabric' fall loosely out of my hands onto the floor and I laid myself onto the table—the coolness of the metal the only thing I could feel on my bare body. I could feel myself lose consciousness, and tears began to roll out of my eyes.

Need to get out...get Rosabeth...

My eyes shut, and my body went still. As I prepared to fall into my final sleep—I heard something. The door opened to the room, and a pair of footsteps pattered close to where I was laying down and exposed. The smell of bleach was sickeningly strong now. My fingers went numb, and my heart slowed from the pounding beat to a slow rhythm in my chest. I could hardly breath...

"Ah...it seems Number 737 has woken up during her laryngeal surgery. Proceed quickly. And please, scrub down the surgical area with bleach when you are done. Master would have your head if he saw this mess."

I blacked out.