And All The Misery That Fell In-Between.
On the Inside Looking Out … through eyes that can't see a damned thing.
Greg woke up to the sounds of heavy footsteps on cement, keys rattling, and the peculiar sound of … a door sliding open?
He couldn't focus. His vision was horribly blurred, his mind unbearably fuzzy and also unintelligible.
"Sanders, get up," a harsh voice said, and an arm jerked him roughly to his feet. The abrupt change in altitude made Greg drop to his knees, his stomach heaving, but no splatter of vomit hit the floor. He had dry-heaved. Had he already thrown up all that was in his stomach –?
"Get up," the voice said again, and his arm seared with pain as Greg was yanked upright, swaying from side to side as he stood, forcing himself – trying his hardest – to figure
out –
What the fuck was going on?
Greg couldn't even think. Static was playing in his mind in a horribly loud and obnoxious way.
"Come on, Greg," another person said, his voice softer than the other's. Something clicked in Greg's mind.
"Nick?" he croaked, the one word sounding garbled. It grated on his ears, and he fought the urge to vomit again. His throat was closing in – his heart rate skyrocketing dramatically – he swayed even more on the spot.
"Get him out of here, Stokes."
Someone's hand grasped Greg's right arm – just above the elbow – and pulled him out of the room. Only afterwards did it hit him that he had been in a jail cell. For the first time in Greg's life, he'd been put in a cell, and hundreds of people never wanted him to see the outside world again.
"These are the terms of your release –"
"Look at him; he can't even understand you right now."
"Fine. I'm trusting you to tell him the terms of his release once he's done being a drunk bastard. You also have to inform him about what he's done and when his trial is."
"I will."
Greg passed out.