[noir 8] Should Have Been A Painter
It was dark. Could have been the burlap sack over my head. My wrists itched from their binds and my back hurt from the awkward position I’d been in for… how long? How long had I been out?
Drugged twice in two days, I thought. I think it’s time I become a painter and leave all this P.I. work behind me. I tried to smile, but winced instead due to the pain. Whoever had knocked me out had gagged me as well, and it was cutting into my cheeks.
A rusty car door opened, and a soft, feminine voice said “Take him upstairs.”
Someone grunted, then a pair of rough hands pulled me out of the vehicle, dropping me on the rocky ground outside, knocking the wind out of my lungs. I let out a gruff moan from the pain.
“Ugh, shut up,” said a gruff voice with a thick Russian accent. “It is not time for you to talk yet.”
The sound of something heavy being swung through the air is the last thing I heard before losing consciousness once again.