Damien’s P.O.V
“You can’t do this! It’s torture!” I yelled, pulling at the restraints that the ‘nurses’ were securing around my wrists. My heart thrashed violently in my chest as they held me down and strapped me to the rickety chair.
“It’s not torture, Damien. It’s treatment.” The ‘doctor’ replied calmly, his Texan American accent quite thick.
I wanted to spit up at him but being strapped to a chair with your ankles and wrists tightly secured by the type of restraints they used on mental patients made a guy really desperate not to piss anyone off. I groaned to express my anger, tugging at the restraints again. My eyes darted around the cold room. The floor was just a slab of concrete, stained with God knows what. The walls were painted white and were quite pristine in consideratio
