The grip on his wrist was iron-hard as Techie entered into a small, plain room with MaMa, head bowed. There wasn’t any need for her to clamp down on his skin and bruise it. He knew better than to try and escape again, but she’d liked the variety of dark purples and yellows painted over him like a reminder. “You’re mine,” she’d told Techie once, while she slammed her fist into the side of his face, and, for the first time ever, that wouldn’t be true.
He’d be someone else’s.
The entire room was austere and impersonal, perfect for having visitors over to Peach Trees in that it gave away absolutely nothing. First floor, a little past the lobby, and to the direct right. Usually it was empty, but today a hooded figure sat primly on the bed, hand outstretched with credits.
Techie glanced up briefly but his gaze sunk down to the floor once more, as if anchored down. He watched MaMa’s boots, morose.
There was a sound Techie couldn’t place. Her vice-like grip went slack, and MaMa crumpled up on the floor. Techie screamed and jumped away from her, blood seeping into the soles of his shoes.
He froze and looked up at the hooded stranger in horror and shock.
TechieHux 