Seven Days 2B

Hello again! Here is the second instalment on Seven Days. This is still on Day Two and the next two or three chapters will also be on Day 2. Now, I got a couple of emails here and there for the second instalment, but not nearly as much as I would like! Pop me a mail guys, even if it's only to chew me out for giving you such short chapters!

Oh, a very vigilant reader has informed me that I forget to put a disclaimer at the top of my stories. Well, if you want me to warn you about strong language, gay guys and possible sex scenes (no! Just not that!) then consider yourself warned J

Wanna check out my other stories? Here's a list of `em:

Boy in the Rain (Updated recently!)

Gay/Highschool

/nifty/gay/highschool/boy-in-the-rain/

Unexpected (Updated recently!)

Gay/Highschool

/nifty/gay/highschool/unexpected/

Well, read! Enjoy! Mail!

Roo

I'm not the type of guy that gets hangovers. Well, I'm sure I can manage one if I really tried, but I usually steer clear from the main ingredient for a hangover: dehydration. Whenever I drink, I make sure to drink lots of water too. It keeps the john's happier if you don't have dark bags under your eyes when they pick you up.

When I woke up that morning, though, it felt like an eighteen-wheeler truck had hit me straight-on at a hundred and fifty kilometers per hour. My mouth felt like it had the only pair of sock I possessed stuffed into it and my throat was burning. My eyes were watering so much that it probably looked like I was crying and my whole body was stiff and sore.

The soreness is not uncommon. I'm often sore after an especially intense session (meaning mainly BDSM, also known as the most hateful fetish of all), but except for Dane (the dog guy) I had no other violent customers the previous day. As I tried to sit up, a scorching pain seared like a lightning strike through my already befuddled head and I had to lay back down again.

I was thirsty - heavily so, but I couldn't bring myself to get up at that moment in time. The pain was just too much. All this was very strange, though. I never get hangovers, and I only had two whiskey's the previous night instead of my usual six or seven. I remember because... Because of that stalker dude. Details of the previous night were slowly coming back to me. I remembered speaking to him at the bar, then walking home. I remembered the tiredness and getting halfway up the stairs, but that was where my mind went blank.

No way have I had enough to drink to even be drunk, let alone to warrant this hangover. In my weakened physical (and mental) state, the only conclusion I could draw was that the guy in white had something to do with it.

After another hour or so of just lying there, I tried to get up again. This time the pain that emanated from my head was even worse. It shot down my neck and into my chest. My whole torso suddenly felt like it was being bound by scorching hot, thick iron bars - with a couple of them plunged into me for good measure.

I fell back down again, and was sure that I wouldn't be able to get up again. It wasn't worth it. Neither for the pain, nor for the joke of a life I was living. With that thought, I plunged back into darkness. When I woke up for the second time that day, the sun was already near or at its Zenith, from what I could see through the tiny window in my room.

The searing pain I had experienced earlier had been reduced to a dull throb, but my throat felt like it had been sandblasted from the inside. Even though the pain had reduced, so had my energy levels. I couldn't even muster enough will to sit, let alone pour a glass of water.

Then he was there again. No fanfare, flashing lights or drum rolls. Just a previously empty space that had suddenly been filled. Through my half-closed eyes I could see him walking towards me. It was clear from the expression on his face that he was worried.

He placed a cool hand on my forehead and said my name. I wanted to reply. I wanted to ask him how the hell he knew my real name and why he is continually bothering me like this, but only a strange gagging noise was coming out of my throat. The lines of concern around his face deepened, and he muttered something. I think it was 'It shouldn't have started this early", but I couldn't be sure.

He reached into the folds of his white clothing and pulled out an object - also white. A bottle. He hurriedly opened it, tilted my head backwards with his free hand and poured it directly between my open lips. I wanted to close my mouth, but my muscles wouldn't respond. I couldn't feel any part of my body anymore, and blackness started to fill the edges of my vision.

He muttered something else, but this time I couldn't hear what it was. My hearing had also started to slip. He put the bottle down and put both hands on my stomach. Deep within I could feel a little bit of warmth appearing. Gradually, the warmth grew stronger. It started to seep to other areas of my body. Down my legs it went, and simultaneously up my chest. It filled my arms, then my hands, then every finger. It was blazing now. An inferno inside my body. Healing, repairing. It filled my head and the blackness around my eyes dissipated. My hearing gradually returned and, amazingly, I felt so energized to the max.

Whatever it was that he had done, he had to open himself in a way of speaking to do it. I now knew who he was, what he was and why he was following me all the time. And it chilled me to the bone.