"Ahh, that's right brother, soak it up, it's all for you," Says Lewis as he slowly rises off your face (you are pretty sure you see steam rise) and pulls his skinny jeans back over his tight butt- "What next?"...
You gulp at the thought. You are still quite hazed by all that foul-smelling gas, and now your throat dries up like a water droplet in the baking desert at the idea that something was coming next. But what was it?
"Well, I think I need to hit the shop for some things (what things?!), so, I guess I'll leave you hear for a while, hm?" You stare up at your once innocent, now dominating, little brother who was now making you gag on his dirty farts, and you're just praying he'll take this pongy sock out of your mouth because the taste of salt is making you go funny. And that's when he leaves the room. He just walks off without saying a word, are you off the hook for a while, is this your chance to attempt to break free of your smelly torture? You can hear fumbling, a racket, coming from the kitchen draw, next to the shoe rack... oh boy.
Slowly but surely he walks back in, armed and primed like a cowboy walking into a saloon, but sadly, Lewis wasn't carrying a gun... just something much, much worse.
Your brother is holding his sneakers, his multi-purpose sneakers: the ones he skates in, jogs in, does gym in, the sneakers that your Mom and Dad has to seal in a plastic bag because the smell was so overbearing it spread through the whole house (and your house is huge). In the other hand, duct tape, and at the sight of it your squirm because you know what is going to happen and you honestly aren't in the mood for passing out. Especially because you know if you do, the things Lewis will do to you, the possiblities, they physically scare you.
"Do I have a surprise for you (hardly I surprise, you could smell 'the surprise' blocks away)?" Lewis taunts as he slowly saunders over with a smug grin that lights the whole room up with terror. The next few minutes were a toxic blur, all you know is that you feel really sick, limp, weakened by the sneakers. They are now ductaped over your nose, and the sock is still in your mouth, so that is no escape. You can't cope, every whiff is painful and you just want to sleep, that is all you feel like. Lewis is gone. And honestly, you are too dizzy right now to worry about what he has gone out for... that cheesey, acidic smell. It all goes black...
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