Page 11 of Hunted, Season Three

Swallow the chunky, rancid mixture and keep swallowing until it’s returned to its origin.

Additional grumbles of discomfort are attached to the actions, but I push past them.

Force my eyes to open.

Focus.

Figure out where the fuck I am.

What the fuck happened.

How much more of me is restrained.

Despite the unbearable burning in my sinuses, I demand my blurry stare to get it together by blinking rapidly.

Command it to clear away the tears that are making my view hazy.

To let me see my surroundings.

Tiny slivers of moonlight make visually scouring the darkness possible; however, the gusts of cold air rushing across my scraped-up cheek insist on hindering the process.

They beg me to simply shut my eyes again and retreat inward where I can’t feel.

Or think.

An unexpected whimper instantly redirects my attention, prompting me to snap my face the opposite way, knowing the source of the sound better than any other in existence.

“Kidddddd!” rushes out but is effortlessly muted by the tape.

It’s unclear if my attempt is heard.

Fuck,it’s unclear if my attempt can evenbeheard.

His lack of movement pushes me to crane my face closer.

Study his chest in hopes of seeing it rise.

Fall.

Rise again.

Make any sort of movement that can provide me with a smidgen of fucking hope.

Hope that that noise wasn’t his last dying breath.

Hope that he’ll live.

Hope that he’ll let me see that mischievous glare I love so fucking much.

That bashful grin.

Anxious to have that hope grow, I grate the side of my face against the ground, determined to get a closer look, refusing to believe I’m lying next to his corpse rather than simply him in a momentarily incapacitated state.

The wind howls louder and harder and harsher scolding me for staring by igniting an ache deep in my ears and new stinging sensations in my eyes.

But I can’t look away.

I won’t.

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