CHAPTER THREE

He had just managed to recover from the searing pain of the last cut when he felt the cool, sharp metal press down on the soft flesh just below the inside of his right elbow and knew what was coming. He bit down hard on his tongue, but still could not stop the cry that seemed almost inhuman coming from his mouth as the blade sliced into his arm, penetrating at least a half inch, and then proceeding to make the cut longer. The feeling was so intense that he felt as if his soul were trying to escape his body to get away from it. His mind was swimming with thoughts trying to distract him from the new open wound, and with no effort from him, Natasha's face came to the forefront of his mind. Her green eyes were lit with amusement as her lips quirked slightly in a faint smile. For a moment, the pain vanished as he memorized every feature of her beautiful face. Then the image slipped, and he was swallowed by the agony once again. Somehow, he managed to open his eyes, a vague part of him still aware of who he was and of the fact that, if he survived this, he should have some idea of what he was dealing with. A bright light stung his eyes, which had been tightly closed for what seemed like forever, but he forced them to remain open as they slowly became able to make out his surroundings through a haze of moisture, partially from the light, the other part from the pain he could not drown out.

A man with a surgical mask covering the lower portion of his face met his look with narrowed eyes and injected something from a needle into a tube that led to the bag of liquid suspended by Clint's head, and from there to a needle stuck in his left forearm. Once the man had set the needle aside, he returned to the other side of the cot which Clint was strapped to and proceeded to open up the new would with some new device. The pain made Clint's eyes glaze over and his throat was so dry and sore that the scream sounded more like a squeaky door than any sound a human made.

Clint jolted up in bed, drenched in sweat and still feeling the pain in his right arm as if it had just been sliced open. His throat was parched and his mouth felt as if it had been filled with sand. He realized he must have cried aloud in his sleep as his mind finally pulled back from the torture. Perhaps he should have taken Natasha's advice, but after all that had happened to him, he did not feel comfortable about drugging himself. However, he guessed that if he did not get real sleep for much longer, it would be the only option left.

After the Avenger's meeting, he had gone straight home, eaten a sandwich, and nearly passed out on the bed.

He had considered what Natasha had suggested as he drove to the apartment complex, but in the end, he had not been able to talk himself into knocking himself out.

He swiped a hand over his face, wiping off the perspiration that ran down his forehead from his soaked hair. Checking his watch, which he had forgotten to take off before falling asleep, Clint realized he had slept for nearly twelve hours. At the moment, he felt he could go for about twice that, though he knew it would do no good, so he wearily pulled himself from the bed and tossed aside his drenched shirt as he took a new outfit from his drawer, feeling the refreshingly cool air in his apartment bring goosebumps up his skin.

He stood under the cold water for some time, thinking through his dreams, wondering if there was any part of reality to them. Had he really thought of Natasha to ease the pain, or had his mind only added that recently? He pushed back the picture of her that immediately came to his mind, refusing to let it distract him, though he could still see it, as if from the corner of his eye. What part of the face of the man in the surgical mask's face Clint had been able to see was seared only his brain, but what use was it? There was nothing else to be learned from his restless sleep that he did not already know...or was there?

He shut off the water, leaving the apartment completely silent as he delved back to his memories. Somewhere in the haze of agony was something he could almost feel, begging to be found, pleading for his attention...

That was it!

There had been a woman's voice - yes, definitely a woman's, which he thought to be near tears, begging for something he could not understand through the pain. It did not sound like the sort of pleading that would come from physical torture, more like the sort of sound a broken heart would make, his brain decided. He doubted he had heard her voice before, and her words were faint. Try as he might, he could not make them out.

After a few minutes, he gave up and slammed his hand against the wall, feeling defeated. He would tell the rest of the Avengers what little he had finally found out, but he doubted it would matter. They seemed to be expecting that, any day now, it would all come back to him and he would be able to identify every person who had been involved in any way, but that certainly was not happening. Part of the reason for his lapse in memory might be the fact that his brain did not want to bring back the pain, he mused as he got dressed, that would be almost like having it happen all over again.

Pain, he could deal with, but whatever they had been doing to him had been worse than just pain. Clint held his right arm out and examined it, following the scar from his latest dream. It was about two inches long and pale, but nowhere near fading. He must have gotten it early on. What could possibly have been the purpose, he wondered. He could not remember a single moment from the entire two months in which anyone had actually spoken to him, so they could not possibly have been trying to get information from him. He felt as if he would lose his mind if he did not find something solid soon.

He was seriously reconsidering drugs to help him sleep. All of the thinking had worn his brain out completely. It was a short battle in his head, and a few minutes later, he had driven to the nearest pharmacy and purchased what he needed without letting his brain ponder it at all for fear of letting it talk him out again.

When he was back at his apartment, he was surprised by how little he regretted the pills he had swallowed. He was so exhausted that he would almost have been willing to get Thor to knock him out if it would have helped. The effects were immediate, and he barely had time to take off his boots before his mind went mercifully blank, and he offered no protest as his body shut down.