Please, just kill me!” At least that was what Reggie was trying to say. He knew his lips were moving but had no clue as to what he sounded like, or if he sounded at all. Or if anyone was nearby to hear him. They’d moved him, he knew that. He could feel cool air on his face, but that was all he could feel. He guessed he was sitting up because nothing was pressing against the back of his head. He wished they’d laid him flat on his back because then maybe he’d choke to death on his own puke. He knew he’d hurled. Couldn’t taste it, but the acid—the only thing he had in his stomach anyway—burned like a blowtorch where his tongue had been cut out. The spinning was the worst—spinning in endless blackness. He didn’t know up from down and that made him puke some more. He wanted to cry but he had no eyes, wanted to scream but had no voice, wanted to— What was that stink? He sniffed again and realized what that French bitch doctor had been talking about before she’d started cutting on him.
