Page 35 of Lamb

The walls were spinning and not in a fun way. My head throbbed to the beat of a drum, and my body carried the vibration. My hands were fists around the sheets, curled over onto my knees, pressing my damp skin into the softness of the bed, willing with all my power for it to just stop.

It was worse than any hangover I had ever experienced; not because of the pain or the effects, but from knowing that it would only get worse. It could all be solved with a single, simple solution.

A bottle. A glass. Even a mouthful would be enough to stave off part of the effects. I would not even beg for more than that; I just wanted enough to have a moment of peace, of numbness, of calm.

“Please,” I moaned, rubbing my head harder into the sheets, not caring if my newly unknotted hair got ruined. “Just one sip.”

Silence answered my prayers.

I groaned, rolling over onto my side, scanning the room. A clock ticked by in the distance, and even if I could read it, I knew it would not be time. Seconds had grown into hours, and hours into days.

I could not tell if the sun was up or down, or if even the seasons had changed while I had been trapped in my new eternal prison. Waking up from one nightmare was bad enough, but my thirst had grown before I had passed out, and now I had become a desert in summer.

I had to find something—anything.

I took a deep breath, using the strength and courage I had in short supply, and straightened. Through bleary, burning eyes, my raw and sensitive skin stung. It had no doubt been damaged during myepisode. Darkness shrouded the room, with not a single peek of light from the gap in the blinds, or the gap beneath the door.

It took me a moment to get orientated with nothing to guide my way. My vision was already poor, and my brain debilitating it further made the sense useless.

I paused to take breaths, fighting the urge to vomit as the throbbing pounding away at my skull with each motion.

“I can do this …” I whispered. “I can.”

I reached forwards, a firm, hard surface slamming into my palm.

The side table.

I clung to the edge, a landmark at long last in my vast black world, and dragged my body towards it. Plush carpet cushioned my feet as I swung them off the edge of the bed, and a wave of determination pushed through me.

It was but a small feat to find the correct side of the bed, but I took the win, nonetheless.

I pushed myself to stand and—

Cold brushed my finger, and I jerked.

Thunk.

Something landed beside my feet, and cold splashed against my leg, an earthy, sweet smell rising.

“What did I—” I stopped as realization throbbed in my chest.

I dropped to my knees, hands scrambling across the floor as the liquid sunk into the thick carpet. My fingers butted against the glass, and I almost threw it away whilst trying to scoop it up into my shaking hands. I lifted it to my mouth with trembling fingers, the sweet aroma of the whiskey like an adrenaline shot to my nose. I stretched out my tongue, waiting for the sweet drops of its nectar.

None came.

“No, no, no, no, no!” I cried, tossing the glass aside and reaching down to the carpet as the panic raced to the surface. I pushed with all my weight into the plush material, desperately trying to squeeze what it had stolen from me, but the porous material was stubborn and only a mild dampness coated my fingers.

I pressed it to my mouth, sucking the skin so hard I threatened to leave bruises, but the lingering, minute taste did not last.

The drink was lost.

“Fuck!” I hissed, slamming my fist into the floor. My head pounded and beat like an iron drum. I didn’t care. I mourned for the relief that had slipped out of my fingers as my body swayed on its tender perch of control and sanity. “Fuck that bastard!”

Lamb’s face plundered through my mind. It was his sick game that had put me here; never giving me enough to quench my thirst but only providing the necessary amount to not die of withdrawal. He was taking too much joy toeing the line, each step this way or that had my body dancing to his tune. Stealing a kiss or a peck, or something a little more before handing over the glass each time was a new form of torture.

Whatever Pavlov’s dog he was trying to pull over me would not work. If it were not for the dying urge to drink the poison he offered, I would be more than willing to bite his lips straight from his face at this point.

Strengthened by the raging fire inside, I used the edge of the bed and the side table to pull myself up onto tender footing. I bit down on my lip, urging the nausea to stay at bay, staggering my way towards the door.

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