There’s a red light coming through my eyelids each time I tilt my head back. In the back of my mind, I see my anatomical heart, my blood pumping through it in steady beats.
I wonder if my mother saw this when she died?
Am I dying?
A body holds me steady at my back. Someone’s breath skirts along the top of my head, and I wonder if it’s their hands squeezing my hips. The smell of sulfur and burning acid fills my nostrils.
I blink as I process the room, my exaggerated surroundings. The voice to my left catches me so off guard that I shove them and the person I was just leaning against. I think I speak, though my tongue feels stuck to the roof of my mouth.
Dammit. Maybe I should have stopped when Mads told me to.
I groan when someone slides their arm around my waist, my unsteady feet shuffling on the floor.
Are they taking me somewhere?
I pull away—or try to. My eyes feel permanently shut—the lids so heavy that glimpses of the room swirl when I manage to get them open.
“—get you cleaned up, fairy,” I hear a distant voice.
No.
I’m fine.
I need to find my friends.
I think I say it.
IknowI say it.
However, every time my mouth opens, vomit burns the back of my throat.
Is that vomit in my hair?
Warm dingy lights infiltrate my vision.
I grab for anything—the wall, the door, maybe a sink… I don’t know who has me. It doesn’t sound like one of my friends. It doesn’t sound like anyone I know.
I hold my hand up to block the light from my eyes, yet as I do, I hear the water turn on, hear the door open, and new voices join the spinning room.
Help me.
I think he wants to hurt me.
I don’t know who I’m with.
Weight compresses around my wrists. Cold air hits my waist and chest.
“Stop,” I say, beginning to panic. My voice sounds like I have marbles in my mouth.
The only response is snickering laughter and mocking pleas.
“Don’t worry, drummer girl,” someone says in my ear. “We’re going to make you feel good.”
I swing, spinning on my feet as I only hit the air. Eyes barely open, I keep fighting, though I think they’re just pushing me around, one by one, each taking a piece of me as they do.
“I call first,” someone says.
First what?
