If someone were to tell Stuart "2D" Pot that his life was misfortunate, he would have scoffed, admitted it was "a little bit misfortunate, I guess", and brushed it off.
Well, if someone told him that right now, he would have choked on the bloody spit he was busy trying not to vomit out of his split lips. Another hard kick delivered itself to his stomach and he cried out, curling in on himself even further, spitting out the mixture half onto his shirt and half onto the floor. Tears slipped down his cheeks while he whimpered from the overwhelming pain he was feeling.
His ears rung with the cackling from above him. Someone grabbed his shirt collar, making him yelp pathetically in surprise and pain when he was dragged, by his shirt, from the ground and smashed against the concrete wall. His legs, though long and lanky as they were, did not make it to the ground and he wasn't able to stand, even less so as a fist drove itself into his cheek, just barely missing an eye.
Blood poured into his mouth and he had a good time choking on it until he spat it out, feeling mucus drip down his nose as tears continued in their tracks.
It felt like he was drowning in his own fluids.
"How PATHETIC." Is the sneer that comes to him, like it's fifty-million miles away, as a fist smashes straight into his jaw, making him cough up more blood, almost choking on it.
You see, he'd try to fight back, but fighting back would end up in him feeling more pain and cracking more ribs than necessary.
So he let it happen.
But saviours are as amazing as the Holy in a situation like this, because soon there were voices coming down the hall that seemed like they belonged to their bandmates. Though Stuart had trouble hearing them, the man above him didn't, and ran, dropping 2D to the floor, giving him one last go at trying to stay concious as his head hit hard wood. He failed, and slipped into the bliss of black-out.
He woke up later to yelling and a cold cloth against his forhead. Nimble fingers, slightly calloused from guitar strings, brushed against his bruised skin and he winced, eyes cracking open. Well, his left eye could open half-way. His right eye opened about an eigth of the way it should've. And he couldn't see out of his left one very well, either.
Stupidly, he attempted to sit up, immediately gasping at the intense pain... well, everywhere. The nimble fingers pushed him down softly, and a face leaned into view, choppily cut hair tickling his skin.
"You are awake!" Was whispered softly to him in the thickly accented voice that belonged to the only female member of their band. Despite his eyes being open, the singer really couldn't see very well at all, but he swore there were tear tracks down her face, contrasting with the large grin she held.
Stuart opened his mouth to speak, and soon shut it, feeling his jaw ache. But his jaw wasn't his only problem. As soon as he thought of words to say- of a question to ask, his head exploded in pain, the kind of pain that could only belong to one of his migranes. A particularaly bad one, too, because Noodle saw how much pain he was in, and called Russel over.
Stu began to dig his hands into his face, groaning in the pain he felt, trying to ignore the additional pain of moving his limbs around. "P...p i ll..s-" He gasped out, digging his palms into his eyes, feeling explosions of pain from behind the bruised skin. "P...ILL..S-! M..Y PILL..S!" He had no idea where he actually was, but he definitely knew he needed his pills. His head throbbed ever harder with each second, and he barely registered Noodle's thin fingers trying to pull his hands away from his eyes.
Every sound to him was fading in and out of focus, loud, small blurring together in a mass of slurr. He wasn't sure if he kept on yelling, but in what felt like an eternity, something pushed against his lips, along with a messy, cold liquid that barely went down his throat, trickling down the sides of his face and spilling onto his shirt.
The amount supplied wasn't enough- the dosage they gave him was only of three pills- two of his capsules and one of the tablets. He realized this while swallowing uncomfortably. However, the throbbing lessened enough for him to sit upwards shakily, making a blind grab for the bottles, surprisingly accurate in his desperate act for pain relief.
Barely able to crack open an eye, he shook around 3 more of the red, round tablets into his sweaty palm, and 4 more of the capsules. Without a single drop of water he swallowed them dry, wincing as he felt his oesophagus push the pills down with effort. The pain from the muscle was bareable- because soon it all went numb, the pain in his head, the pain in his injuries and his face.
He smiled as he fell backward, the drugs having a somewhat drowsy affect on him, considering they were perscription to relieve his headaches- which healed much faster with the aid of sleep. The red ones acted more like incredibly powerful sleeping pills than pain killers anyway.
Vaguely, he heard someone mumble, "Is he supposed to take that many?" Another mutter replied, higher-pitched but a lot quieter. 2D didn't quite catch what the words were.
He knew there was a "Two at most" limit on the capsule bottle, and a "Half, one if absolutely necessary" limit on his tablets. In his haze of sleepiness, he guessed that they didn't really tend to come into his room when he had a migrane. If it was a really bad one, sometimes he'd take 8(+) of the red ones and 10(+) of the capsules. H
e guessed that they were never really around to see him pour the mass of pills down his throat, as tears cascaded down his cheeks from the pain, and spit ran from his lips.
He guessed that that was ok.
He knew it was, as sleep grasped at him, taking with it his pain, his terror, leaving him to revel in his misfortune.
When he woke up the next time, he woke up alone.
Well- technically. In 2D's dreams, he was never really alone. He could tell it was a dream from how little it hurt when he stood up, and how he wasn't really controlling his actions.
Something about where he was seemed familiar, although all he could see was black. He felt like sighing, but couldn't, due to his lack of control. His pill-high dreams were always weird, but he couldn't remember the last dream he had when he WASN'T drugged beyond reason.
He felt something touch his back. It was cold, and solid.
He didn't turn to see what it was- he couldn't, after all.
Involintarily, his body started moving, just walking forward aimlessly.
Whatever it was, it stayed pressed between his shoulderblades. A fear that didn't belong to him in this moment crept to the back of his mind, and he felt his palms sweating as he continued to walk.
A voice mumbled clearly into his ear, but he had no idea what the words meant. They were in English- but is was like someone had put a blanket over his hearing translators, because the voice registered no words to him. The thing pressing into his back pressed harder, starting to hurt with a dull ache.
He did not move any faster, even as the voice progressively got louder. The 2D, the one trapped in the body that wouldn't listen to him, wanted to yell. He wanted the person behind him to stop, because it was starting to really hurt. The singer wanted to cry out as the object was removed from his back and whacked across the back of his head, but he could say nothing.
He could only walk on at a steady pace, while the person behind him jabbed him continuously, yelling words he couldn't understand.
The voice had two more join it in chorus, though only one object kept hitting him. The three voices were all different in pitch, and one talked so fast he almost mistook it as a motor.
His legs stopped, and he turned around.
A huge, silver barrel of a gun was held at his face, and jabbed into his forhead, the rougher of the three voices yelling so loud it drowned out the other two.
.
.
Blam.