Free NO GOOD DEED by M.P. McDonald Page B

other side almost made him smile.
    Days passed and they didn’t come to take him to be interrogated. Every time a meal arrived, he jumped at the sound at the door, terrified they were coming for him. The constant stress made eating impossible and his hunger diminished. At first, he tried to eat everything, but when he puked more often than not, he quit trying. What difference did it make anyway? Starving or drowning, the end result was still dead. At least he controlled one.
    He abandoned his exercise routine. There was no point. Time didn’t matter and he sat in the cell staring at the wall. They took away his blanket after he shoved out a meal a second time, and he was sure they cranked the air conditioning on to its lowest setting. He shivered and lay on the bed. Mostly, he slept.
    His dreams no longer held future events, instead, he dreamed of the past. Christmas, summer vacations, sitting in school. The settings didn’t always look like he remembered, but somehow he always knew where he was in them. And he was always safe.
    Delivery of meals became an annoyance that took him from his dreams and forced him to get up to push the tray back out. At last there came a time when he couldn’t get up. He tried, but his head spun and he sat back down. Three times, he tried to stand. They would be mad at him. He knew it, so he lurched to his feet. His head swam and the floor raced up to meet him, slowed only by the thud of his head as it hit the toilet.
    He lay stunned, watching with mild interest as blood flowed across the floor. His blood. At least he had added some color to the room. The puddle spread and felt sticky and warm beneath his ear. He raised his head a fraction and tried to swipe at it, but his arm was too heavy to move. With a wet squelch, his head sank back to the floor. It felt like ice against his cheek. Mark shuddered and closed his eyes. He was so tired.
    Voices, urgent and angry, penetrated his consciousness. They were angry at him—he could tell. They were probably mad that he had made a mess in his room. If they just gave him a minute, he’d get up and clean it. If he could just get his body to cooperate. He had to get up.
    The command from his brain died on its way to his limbs. Shiny black boots halted a few feet away and a blur of pink became a face. It was speaking to him, but Mark couldn’t process what it was saying and gave up when the effort sent a bolt of pain through his head.
    He couldn’t remember closing his eyes, but he felt something prying them open one at a time, and groaned when a bright light flashed in them. He tried to close his eyes and turn his head but hands held him still and tore at his shirt. Something tight went around his neck. Fear that they were going to strangle him entered his mind, but he couldn’t summon enough energy to open his eyes. It wasn’t until he felt a hard board at his back, and his body rolled onto it, that the panic set in. He tried to scramble off the board, but his arms and legs had been strapped down. It was no use. He was trapped. The voices dimmed and became distant. Then they were gone and everything went black.
    * * *

        “Open your eyes!”
    A hand shook his shoulder and Mark blinked awake with a start. He squinted at a greenish curtain dangling from the ceiling. Where the hell was he? The room wasn’t the same as the interrogation room and he was in a bed. A real bed. With a real pillow and he smoothed his hand against the mattress. Sheets. Scratchy ones, but they felt heavenly to him. Blankets covered him up to his chest. He wanted to close his eyes and burrow into them, but the hand shook him again.
    The voice came again, “Oh no you don’t. No going back to sleep.” While still commanding, it wasn’t threatening.
    “What?” Mark tried again when his first attempt came out as a croak, and he sought out the speaker. Jim.
    Mark jerked and tried to scoot to the far side of the bed. A clip on his finger fell to the floor and he