Friday, September 18, 2015

Shadows Disinterred: Day 16

Word Count: 96,030

Summary of Events:
Dallas suffered another painful nightmare and tried to escape. He then brazenly tried to break into the barn twice, but both times he ended up getting stopped. Dallas then refused to eat his supper — positive it was drugged — and then went to the barn to try and serve it to the cat Deby claimed they had in the barn, Deby chased him down and smashed the plateful of food onto his face . . .

Excerpt of the Day:
"He felt the plate slide off of his face that hit the ground, shattering. Some food was hanging off the precipice of his throat. He went to cough it up, but Deby's hand covered his mouth firmly.
"Swallow," Deby commanded.
Dallas tried to cough it up with his mouth closed, but it wasn't as effective. He thrust his head forward, trying to roll the food up to behind his teeth. He couldn't swallow it, he wasn't going to. He didn't know how high-powered that stuff was, and he didn't want to risk that what was in his mouth was tainted.
"Swallow!" Deby said sharply, snapping Dallas' head back and throwing the food down his throat without it being chewed. Dallas gagged and tried to break free of Deby's hand to cough it out of his throat.
Finally he wrenched her hand off of his face and coughed the food out. Reaching up, Dallas swiped residual food off of his face and out of the way of his eyes. He opened his eyes and looked at the shattered plate at his feet, food sprayed all around, then up, Deby was staring at him ferociously; incensed.
Straightening, Dallas set his shoulders and looked at her defiantly. He was pretty sure he looked ridiculous with food remains swiped across his face, but he didn't really care much at all. He'd won.
"I won't go down without a fight," Dallas said firmly. "And you're going to have to fight bloody hard to take me down. I told you my physical condition, and it's far above yours, not to mention it's far above what you could have ever achieved if you'd taken the time."
Deby crossed her arms and glared at at Dallas. "You're speaking fighting words."
"I know, "Dallas replied. "And I'm not a man who's afraid of a fight, so why shouldn't I speak them?"
"Because you're not going to win," Deby replied.
Dallas raised his eyebrows at her, turned to the milk house, and seized the doorknob; he turned it with his full force. He felt the door opening as something stabbed into his abdomen, deep. It twisted. Dallas cried out and reached for it.
He grabbed Deby's hand and pulled it away. Looking down, Dallas saw a large fragment of the broken plate jutting out of his abdomen. Dallas felt the blood drain from his face, he felt faint.
Shakily he took hold of the plate's edge to pull it out, but then he remembered that wouldn't be safe. He needed a doctor or a hospital; something, quick. He sagged against the wall of the milk house, waves of cold uneasiness washing over him and sapping the strength from his muscles.
Dallas couldn't tear his eyes off the sight of the white glass — or porcelain, or plastic, or whatever it was — jutting out from him, the blood staining his blue shirt a brownish-purple colour."

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