Mal awoke with a start, panting, beads of sweat further moistening his already-humid fever dream. His throat tickled and begged for air, and a nauseating sense of indescribable apprehension welled up inside him. He coughed, and instantly regretted it; he should have strictly preserved the energy to breathe. In through the nose, he mentally recited, out through the mouth.
Oddly enough, that thought alone was the only coherent one that occurred to him (next to his wondering why that was, exactly).
As the fallen king became more aware of his surroundings and in touch with his nervous system, he first noticed that his clothes clung to his damp skin, and it was as if every muscle twitched and stung like restless poison ivy. He bit down hard on the insides of his mouth, the familiar taste of copper lingering on his tongue, and the stench of an identical source dripping from his nose.
He hadn't hurt like this since the good old days in juvie.
But unlike then, this blood was not of victory, but of wrath. He then identified the queasy knots in his stomach as the unmistakable intuition that someone wanted him dead.
That's when he took in his fettered and motionless wrists and ankles in his peripheral vision, and the heat contained in his body evaporated, only to be replaced with cruel chills that shoved merciless shudders through his nerves.
"Awake at last? Finally," a feminine grumble echoed in unison with a sudden blast of light emanating from a corner of the room.
At the sound of her voice, he instantly struggled with everything he had. Something about it triggered every negative emotion known to him, and they swarmed around his aching form, well beyond his level of comfort. But then he realized.
He couldn't move an inch on his own.
The only physical response, if even considered one, was the maddening perpetuation of involuntary muscle spasms, accompanied by what he now recognized as his throbbing temples, each beat a sporadic explosion.
"Don't bother struggling. Your level of strength is currently equivalent to that of a partially-conscious person during their REM state of sleep. Although, assuming you're too pathetically primitive to comprehend such a description, allow me to 'dumb it down,' if you will. You're basically paralyzed. And if you remain incapable of understanding that, well,"-she snickered-"you're out of luck. I don't speak 'simpleton.'"
By now, his thought process sped to its standard rate, and at once, he knew that he desired more than anything to demand her identity, and perhaps cuff her across the face in the process.
He hated her. He was unsure of why, but even if she was in no way responsible for his current situation, he couldn't help but think, I wish I could just throw her against a concrete wall over and over until blood gushes from her eardrums and satisfying cracks of her skull penetrate through that rat's nest one might call her hair. If I weren't stuck like this, I swear, this bitch would get the goriest fucking beatdown of her life, and her screams would echo across the country, if she would even be able to scream at all. How dare she mess with the likes of me!
Then again, what else was new? He'd wished these things upon multitudes of people in the past. Still, something in the back of his mind nibbled at his clouded judgment. There was more. Something deeper. Because unlike his usual dark, ruthless fantasies, he didn't quite enjoy this one as much as all the others. His anger and blinding resentment toward this mysterious woman extinguished any lasting satisfaction of the imaginary scenario. And there was something else, too.
Her hair.
Why did he insult her hair?
How was he to know of such a minute detail?
He thought harder about her hair. It's messy. She can't do anything with it. And it looks like it's constantly layered with another coat of the blood of her opposition.
Blood.
Blood is red.
Her hair is red. But not too red.
She snorted. "Are you even listening to me? Look at me when I speak! I'm talking to you, moron." She clicked closer with the aid of her heels.
Red means anger. She's very angry when she doesn't get her way.
"Hey! Imbecile! Are you deaf?" she roared, yanking the collar of his shirt closer to her face. Much to his frustration, his eyes were glossy with leftover fatigue, and everything was out of focus. His thoughts and emotions were his only clarity.
Her breath smelled of gingerbread and disinfectant.
Ginger. She's a ginger.
"The least you can do is make eye contact, you pitiful diploid."
Her eyes are green. Like snakes. Like sickness. Like marijuana.
Man, I could go for some weed right now.
Her eyes narrowed. "According to my calculations, your paralysis should have worn off at least five minutes ago."
He wanted to shrug out of spite, and was rather disappointed that he couldn't.
"Must've forgotten to carry the three. Lucky you," she muttered begrudgingly.
Out of nowhere, his teeth began to grind painfully. It dawned on him that he must have been wishing to do so the entire time, but was not able up until now. The same applied to an abrupt hissing sound escaping his lips.
"I suppose I wasn't too far off after all," she bemused, pushing her glasses into place. Her smile was short-lived, clearly from agitation by the noise. "What are you doing?"
And then it hit him. Her name starts with an S.
He let his jaw fall slack temporarily before finally proceeding to utter the most appropriate four words for the circumstances.
She noticed this and, without haste, pulled out a shotgun from inside her sweater's pocket and nuzzled it under his chin. "Spit. It. Out."
He swallowed, glaring straight into Scarlett's snake-eyes. "Gingers don't have souls."