I wake up to the sensation of movement, my head throbbing and my face still covered by the cloth. The unmistakable hum of a car engine confirms that I’m in a moving vehicle.
Great, I just got kidnapped again.
I’m getting really tired of being chloroformed and dragged around against my will. At this rate, I might just develop PTSD. My brain quickly realizes that this is not a situation for an internal monologue, and I panic as I try to pull the cloth off my face. I quickly realize my hands are tied tightly. Yet another set of bruises on my wrists. This is why I wanted to leave—because honestly, this isn’t a life.
The car comes to a stop, and I hear the door open. Someone roughly grabs my arm and pulls me out of the car. I stumble on my heels, my legs unsteady from the lingering effects o
