Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
I squirm when I feel heat radiating off him. “You fucked up,” he says, shaking his head at me with dark eyes that promise wicked retribution. “You’ll pay for what you’ve done.”
“Me?” I gasp. “I don’t even know who you are.”
He takes a moment to snarl in fury at me, but it’s all that I need—that one split second. I aim for his groin but barely land the blow. Shit. He fumbles, grasping for me, but I’m already sprinting toward the street.
People. Cars. Crowds.
I have to cross the street and hope that he gets caught behind in traffic. I can make it. I can make it if I push with the last bit of energy I have, and then once I get into the street, I can melt into the crowds milling around Red Square. I know I can. I dash into the street and hear the blast of a horn. A crash. Blistering, searing pain, a deep bellow of rage behind me… then darkness.
Chapter 5
POLINA
I don't ever remember feeling so much pain—it’s carved into my bones, relentless and unforgiving. Crushing. My head feels three times its normal size, and my shoulder and arm throb relentlessly. The skin on my face stings, and something is very, very wrong with my leg.
What happened? Where am I? I try to recall something that will bring reassurance but can’t.
But there’s one question that troubles me far more than the pain does: Who am I?
I hear voices talking over me but not to me because they think I'm still asleep. Am I still asleep? My stomach roils with something like hunger, and my mouth waters. I feel as if I'm going to be sick. I try to open my eyes, but they feel too heavy. One thing is clear—at least I’m not dead. It doesn't seem possible that death and pain this intense can coexist. Or maybe that's all there is—maybe there's nothing but pain after death.
I try to sleep. It's minutes, hours, maybe days later when I try to open my eyes again. I need answers. Who am I, and why does it feel like everything I knew has slipped away?
This time, I'm able to open my eyes a bit, even though it seems to take every single ounce of my energy. I see someone sitting in front of me, with long, auburn hair that I don't recognize, and the inside of a well-appointed room that’s equally unfamiliar. I look down at my body, hoping that I will recognize something. I stare at my hands. The fingers are long, the nails trimmed, painted with a tip of white. What's that called? I can't remember. There's a white sheet over me, and on the left side, something bulges underneath the sheet. Why is my left side so much bigger than my right? I'm aware of deep voices and high-pitched voices, but none are familiar. It terrifies me because nothing is familiar.
"I think she's waking."
I blink and open my eyes again and realize what I thought I was seeing was just in my imagination, my half-conscious awareness. Because my hands are not in front of me. They are tied to the bed, shackled with metal handcuffs. I gasp and try to move my legs and realize they are cuffed too.
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
"Don't fight it.” The voice belongs to the small woman at my bedside. I don't even know if I can call her a woman. Girl? She's definitely younger than I am, but I couldn't tell you my age, no matter what you offered me. "Don't speak right now. You're in recovery."
Recovery from… what? Did I have surgery? That must be it. I had surgery, and they gave me medicine that made my brain forget everything for a little bit. I breathe through my nose and exhale. In a little while, it will come back. I’ll remember why I’m here.
What is my name? I never knew how important it was to remember my name until I couldn't.
I yank my wrist, but the metal is unyielding. I pull my ankles, and it's the same thing. I need help. I ignore her advice because I have something to say.
"Why am I like this?" My voice wobbles.
The young woman looks concerned.
"You really don't know?"
I shake my head, but it hurts. It feels like my brain is going to explode out of my skull.
“Never mind that. We'll have time to get to that. Tell me, are you in pain?"
Finally, something I can answer. “Yes. So much pain.” The words come out in Russian.
I speak Russian. I understand Russian. Something I can hold onto.
"She needs morphine," the young girl says quietly. I didn't notice the other person in the room, dressed in white.
"No," I say, my voice shaky. I know that morphine will make me disoriented, and I don't need to be more disoriented.