Luka Kovac didn’t do what any rational person would have done when confronted by the unconscious figure of John Truman Carter. Any rational person, whether they were a doctor or not, would have checked his status and then called for an ambulance. Of course, Luka, after recovering from the initial shock and, more-or-less, acting on auto-pilot, did check John’s vitals, assessing that the injury to his head was not severe, and he cleaned and dressed the wound: but calling for an ambulance did not feature in his actions. What he did instead was to drag him into the bedroom and haul him on to the bed. Then, moving swiftly, he opened the top drawer of the nightstand, pulled out a pair of police issue handcuffs, snapped one end on to the iron bed frame and the other on to John’s right wrist.
Thus, it can be safely assumed that Luka Kovac was not acting rationally. The fact that he had had quite a bit to drink was one reason – the other was that he simply panicked. He knew Carter hated him, despite the public displays of civility, and the feeling was mutual. The last thing he needed, considering his current reputation in the hospital, was trouble . . .
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John Carter slowly came to his senses. He blinked at the light that was invading his eyes and rolled his head slowly from side to side. His head throbbed with the motion. He blinked several more times forcing his eyes to focus, to push through the blurry haze. He attempted to lift his right hand, which, for some reason, was above his head, but it wouldn’t move. Instead, he used his left hand to feel his head and, after gentle probing, he found the Steri-Strips . . . . . . . and then he remembered. He tried to sit up but a sharp, cutting pain at his right wrist held him back. He looked, his eyes now fully focused . . . "What the f. . .?"
Luka, on hearing that his ‘guest’ was awake, cautiously entered the bedroom: he was more sober now and vaguely wondering if he had done the right thing. If proof was required that he hadn’t, he found it in the blazing eyes of John Carter. John stood up and moved towards him before being roughly pulled up by the handcuff.
"Well . . . " John was shaking his head in that way he had when he was agitated or nervous, "what are you waiting for . . . take these off . . . now."
Luka said nothing, did nothing, not moving from the door, conveniently out of John’s reach.
John shook his head again, his mouth gaping open. "Take these off," he ordered. Luka shifted on his feet and stared at the floor, wrapping his arms around himself. "Luka, if you don’t take these off I swear to God I’ll . . ."
"You’ll what," Luka snapped, looking up and staring hard into John’s eyes. He abruptly stepped out of the room and then stepped back in again, extremely agitated. He took deep breaths trying to calm down. He raised his hands, palms turned outwards, and softened his tone.
"Look. I did it because I didn’t want you to just rush out of here without talking. I need to know what you’re going to say."
Again John’s mouth gaped open in disbelief. "What I’ll say. What I’ll say." The pitch of John’s voice rose with the intensity of his emotion. "That you attacked me. Knocked me out. Is that what you mean?"
Luka shook his head, trying to bite back on his anger. "You see. That’s why I did it . . . and to get it straight . . . I didn’t attack you. I didn’t knock you out – you knocked yourself out. I knew that you would use it as an opportunity to get back at me."
"Get back at you. Get back at you. Did you think handcuffing me to the bed was going to make it any better?" All this time, John, normally so expressive with his hands, was unbalanced by the restricting handcuff. Luka was mesmerized by these half-gestures and, as if evidence for his disturbed state of mind was needed, grinned.
John was incensed. "You think this is funny? You’re mad – certifiable. When people hear about this . . . you are . . . you’re . . . I don’t know . . . finished . . . you’re finished."
Luka shook his head, seemingly dazed. He retreated from the room shutting the door behind him. John was equally astounded. "Luka, get back here and take these off . . . Luka," he shouted. The only response he received was the sound of the television.
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If John had taken the time to think about his situation he may have acted more wisely than he did but his dislike for the man (which was growing by the second) colored his judgement. He pulled at his wrist, getting more and more irate.
"He’s gone mad. Handcuffs, fucking handcuffs. Crazy bastard". He sat back down on the bed and examined the handcuffs. He looked about him trying to find something to pick at the lock with. He searched the drawers of the nightstand but found nothing that would assist him.
Frustrated he did the only he could think of. He shouted for help. He wasn’t sure if anyone could hear him, not knowing the habits of Luka’s neighbors, or even if he had any, but at least it was being proactive. "Help. Somebody help me."
Luka flew into the room like a tornado and it was only a matter of seconds before he was on top of John forcing him onto the bed, climbing on top of him, one hand placed on his mouth to stop him from calling out. John was taken aback by the intensity of the assault. He tried to fend him off with his one free hand but it was futile: he gave up and lay quiet and still. Luka, sensing his acquiescence, eased up.
Time seemed to stop . . .
Luka’s weight was pressing heavily on to him and John shifted uncomfortably and groaned. The sound broke Luka out of a trance. He removed his hand from John’s mouth. John dared to speak but he spoke softly not wanting to provoke Luka further.
"You’re hurting me."
Luka stared at him blankly and then, in a rush, he leapt off of the bed, went to the drawer of a dresser and pulled out a tie. He returned to the bed and grabbed hold of John’s free hand, wrenching it back. John cried out in pain. Luka knelt on his arm and knotted one end of the tie around his wrist. He then pulled it tight taking it to the other corner of the bed frame. He pulled it through and tied it. Then, without so much a backward glance, he left the room slamming the door behind him.
John was bewildered, confused. He shifted trying to find a position to ease his back, to get comfortable. He pulled at the tie but it was knotted tight. He tried bending his wrist to untie the knot but his fingers couldn’t reach. He tried reaching for the end tied to the bed but it too was out of reach, his arms stretched wide as they were. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he seethed between clenched teeth.
‘Way to go John,’ he thought, ‘how to make a bad situation much, much worse. Jesus.’ But he was thankful that Luka hadn’t gagged him . . . trying to reason with Luka was the only defense he had . . .
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The room grew dark as night approached which heightened John’s state of anxiety. He was relieved when the door opened and light from the other room illuminated a small triangle of floor. Luka was silhouetted in the doorframe and John could see a bottle raised to his lips. ‘Great,’ he thought but wisely said nothing. Luka reached out and turned on the light and John was alarmed to see that it wasn’t beer that he was drinking, it was scotch. "Luka. We’ve got to talk. This is crazy."
Luka grinned amiably and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked John up and down and John found himself inadvertently cringing under his gaze. Luka returned his look to John’s face. He realised that there were many things that pissed him off about John Carter – his arrogance, his superciliousness – he grinned as he mentally slurred over all the s letters . . . He took another drink . . .
. . . he also realised that what really pissed him off most of all, at this precise moment in time, were his eyes – those deep brown puppy dog eyes that John knew how to use so well. He’d seen him in action with those eyes, seen him come over all helpless and cute when he wanted to get something. Those eyes . . . He smiled as he reached his hand out to the lower drawer of the nightstand. Even in his addled state he was fully aware that John was watching him intently. He opened the drawer and pulled out a piece of cloth.
"What are you doing?" He noted the nervous inflection in John’s voice but it seemed distant, far away – he didn’t care to reply.
He folded the material deliberately and then moved his hands to John’s head. John tried to move away, to throw his head out of Luka’s grasp but he couldn’t actually do anything to prevent him from placing the material over his eyes.
Luka tied the material tightly and was pleased at the effect that it had. John was breathing rapidly, his body tense with apprehension. Luka felt a strange surge of power that was intoxicating. He reached out and lightly brushed the side of John’s face with his hand, the barest of touches, but the effect was devastating. John flinched and then thrashed wildly bucking against the restraints. He screamed, "Let go of me. Fucking untie me you bastard."
Luka moved his hand down John’s chest not caring that John’s violent movements sporadically broke the contact. He moved his hand to his groin and cupped his genitals through his pants.
"If you don’t stop moving I will hurt you." John either ignored this or didn’t hear because he continued to move. Luka clenched his hand as hard as he could. John screamed in pain. His back arched as he tried to get away from Luka’s grip. Luka finally let go and John collapsed onto the bed panting frantically, trying to get his breath.
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John Carter was now in a complete state of panic, myriad thoughts racing through his head, trying to make sense of an incomprehensible situation.
He heard footsteps approaching the bed. He tensed. "Luka we need to talk about this. You’re not thinking straight . . . I know you’ve been under stress . . . with the suspension and . . . everything . . . and I know you have reasons to hate me and if there is . . . anyway that I can make it up to you then I’ll do it." Luka said nothing. "Money. I have access to money. Anything you want."
Luka snorted with contempt. "You think that you can buy your way out of any situation don’t you." John hadn’t really thought that it would work but he was grasping at straws.
"Then tell me what you want. Please." Luka didn’t answer and John’s desperation was evident. "Jesus this is ridiculous. This is getting way out of hand."
Suddenly Luka was by his side, his mouth to John’s ear. He screamed, "Just shut up . . . for once in your pathetic, miserable life know when to shut up," and then he was gone.
John said nothing but his mind was racing. He could hear Luka pacing up and down, muttering in Croatian. He actually wondered if Luka was going to kill him, he wasn’t a murderer . . . Oh God. All this flew through his head before he noticed that the room was silent. He listened, his head raised off the bed.
"Luka." There was no reply. "Luka . . . stop . . . fucking with my head."
Luka, standing in the corner with his back to the wall, covered his ears and slowly slid to the floor.
To be continued . . .
Copyright Footer', 'This site is not affiliated in any way with "ER", its writers or production company, or NBC, and makes no profit from the show. The ERROS skin is by Brihana. The script is eFiction version 3.4.2© Tammy Keefer, http://efiction.org\r\n