it'll pass," the voice of the man tells him. He can dimly make out the man's form now, glimpsed through the glare of the light and his tearing eyes.
"Where am I?" Michele croaks. The form moves back a little, out of the glare just enough that its face begins to solidify, its features begin swimming slowly into focus. A thin and haggard face, a face of a very tired young man who looks years older than his age. Michele blinks again, then sees the man's eyes, flat blue-gray eyes like a stormy January afternoon sky, eyes at once cold and filled with the threat of violence.
"I ask the questions," the man says matter-of-factly.
"Is this..." Michele begins, but he has to swallow, his tongue working up a few precious drops of spit to wet his throat before he can continue. "Is it a hospital?"
"No," the man says. "But I did say that I'll be asking the questions, didn't I? You should save your strength. You're going to need it, Michael."
"Don't... don't call me that." Michele closes his eyes, remembering the face from Père An-toine, the rain-bedraggled hair and the sting in his neck, fear rushing up to overwhelm the confusion. It doesn't matter where he is, he knows. He's somewhere bad, somewhere very bad he shouldn't be.
"It is your name, isn't it? It is the name your parents gave to you." Now there is a small black flashlight in the man's hands. He uses it to examine Michele's eyes, just like a doctor, but Michele knows now the man isn't a doctor.
"It's not... my name anymore," Michele tells him, and closes his burning eyes when
the probing fingers and black flashlight are taken away. "My name's Michele." "But that's a girl's name, and you're not a girl, are you?" the man asks.
Michele ignores the question, as he has so many times in the past. "What are you going to do to me?" he asks. The man sighs loudly, and
Michele feels the sudden gust of the man's breath blow cool across his bare chest. "I am going to ask you questions."
"Is that all you're going to do? Ask me some questions?"
The man doesn't answer this time. Michele pulls cautiously at the straps at his wrists and ankles. The hard leather cuts into his skin like the blade of a dull knife.
"There's no point in trying to get loose. I'd just tie you down again. You must know that."
Michele stops wrestling with the restraints and moves his tongue across chapped lips that taste like sweat and lipstick. He swallows again, careful to be sure he has control of his voice before he speaks.
"If you weren't afraid of me," he says, "you wouldn't have tied me up in the first place." In response the man makes a sudden, dry sound that's part cough and part angry huff, then slaps Michele hard. Michele's head snaps sideways, smacks roughly against the cold metal tabletop. His mouth fills with the taste of his own blood.
"I have to take precautions, boy, but don't underestimate me, and don't overestimate yourself." The man pauses and Michele can tell that he's panting now, his breath coming out fast and hard, furious staccato gasps and wheezes like a winded animal or a frustrated old woman.
"If I thought you posed any immediate threat to me or to anyone else I'd have killed you in that fucking filthy alley. There could have been cyanide in that needle, if that's what I'd wanted, just as easy. Easier."
The man pauses, gasps and wheezes his exasperation, and because Michele doesn't know anything else to say, because he's already pretty sure there's no way he's going to walk away from this, he says, "You're crazy, aren't you?"
Growling, the man lunges into the glare of the surgical light so that its glow crowns his head like a mad saint's nimbus. He seizes Michele's face in both his huge, clammy hands, one for either side, his thumbs poised above Michele's eyes like snakes readying to strike. The man's face is only inches from Michele's now, muscles straining against the rage inside. The man's breath smells bad, like rotten vegetables and wintergreen mints.
"You're going to have
"Where am I?" Michele croaks. The form moves back a little, out of the glare just enough that its face begins to solidify, its features begin swimming slowly into focus. A thin and haggard face, a face of a very tired young man who looks years older than his age. Michele blinks again, then sees the man's eyes, flat blue-gray eyes like a stormy January afternoon sky, eyes at once cold and filled with the threat of violence.
"I ask the questions," the man says matter-of-factly.
"Is this..." Michele begins, but he has to swallow, his tongue working up a few precious drops of spit to wet his throat before he can continue. "Is it a hospital?"
"No," the man says. "But I did say that I'll be asking the questions, didn't I? You should save your strength. You're going to need it, Michael."
"Don't... don't call me that." Michele closes his eyes, remembering the face from Père An-toine, the rain-bedraggled hair and the sting in his neck, fear rushing up to overwhelm the confusion. It doesn't matter where he is, he knows. He's somewhere bad, somewhere very bad he shouldn't be.
"It is your name, isn't it? It is the name your parents gave to you." Now there is a small black flashlight in the man's hands. He uses it to examine Michele's eyes, just like a doctor, but Michele knows now the man isn't a doctor.
"It's not... my name anymore," Michele tells him, and closes his burning eyes when
the probing fingers and black flashlight are taken away. "My name's Michele." "But that's a girl's name, and you're not a girl, are you?" the man asks.
Michele ignores the question, as he has so many times in the past. "What are you going to do to me?" he asks. The man sighs loudly, and
Michele feels the sudden gust of the man's breath blow cool across his bare chest. "I am going to ask you questions."
"Is that all you're going to do? Ask me some questions?"
The man doesn't answer this time. Michele pulls cautiously at the straps at his wrists and ankles. The hard leather cuts into his skin like the blade of a dull knife.
"There's no point in trying to get loose. I'd just tie you down again. You must know that."
Michele stops wrestling with the restraints and moves his tongue across chapped lips that taste like sweat and lipstick. He swallows again, careful to be sure he has control of his voice before he speaks.
"If you weren't afraid of me," he says, "you wouldn't have tied me up in the first place." In response the man makes a sudden, dry sound that's part cough and part angry huff, then slaps Michele hard. Michele's head snaps sideways, smacks roughly against the cold metal tabletop. His mouth fills with the taste of his own blood.
"I have to take precautions, boy, but don't underestimate me, and don't overestimate yourself." The man pauses and Michele can tell that he's panting now, his breath coming out fast and hard, furious staccato gasps and wheezes like a winded animal or a frustrated old woman.
"If I thought you posed any immediate threat to me or to anyone else I'd have killed you in that fucking filthy alley. There could have been cyanide in that needle, if that's what I'd wanted, just as easy. Easier."
The man pauses, gasps and wheezes his exasperation, and because Michele doesn't know anything else to say, because he's already pretty sure there's no way he's going to walk away from this, he says, "You're crazy, aren't you?"
Growling, the man lunges into the glare of the surgical light so that its glow crowns his head like a mad saint's nimbus. He seizes Michele's face in both his huge, clammy hands, one for either side, his thumbs poised above Michele's eyes like snakes readying to strike. The man's face is only inches from Michele's now, muscles straining against the rage inside. The man's breath smells bad, like rotten vegetables and wintergreen mints.
"You're going to have
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