The world tips on its access as I manage to turn myself over. Everything clenches as a massive heave wracks my body, twisting my insides as saliva pools in my mouth. An unholy mixture of bile, acid, and undigested alcohol inches its way up my throat, only held back by sheer will.
I will not let her see me this way. I can’t chance this being leaked to the press. As if what they’re already saying about me isn’t so much worse. Somehow, even in this state of being caught between heaven and hell, I find I have at least some form of self-preservation.
It’s no secret I’m touted as the reckless playboy of the fashion world. At least I still have the wherewithal not to give them more ammunition than they already have. Unfortunately, even as I think that, I find I cannot hold on any longer.
My body trembles as I make my way onto my hands and knees and throw everything up from the night before. Everything locks up on me as I hold on for dear life as my body purges itself and does its best to get rid of the poison souring in my stomach. Somehow, it doesn’t taste all that different coming up as it did going down.
I have to get clean. I have to stop this. I can’t go on living like a shell of a human being, killing myself with alcohol.
You’ll never get clean.
A roar rips from my throat as I slam my palm against my eye. He’d never say that. Jeffery supports me and all my endeavors, including being clean.
You’ll never get clean.
Rough hands grip my arms, dragging me up from the floor. The blessed floor. The coolness that made everything feel just a touch better. But then, that means, I’m not in bed. I’m not passed out on top of Brittany. The bathroom. But how did I get there? When did I get there?
Cracking my eyes open, I stare down at the slick black tile underneath me, now stained with my puke. I don’t have black tile in my bathroom. Actually, I don’t have black flooring anywhere in my house. It gleams at me, as if it’s meticulously shined and polished every minute of every day to keep it looking so pristine.
As I stare down, doing my best to remember where I am, my vomit disappears. It seeps through the floor as if it never existed. But I know it existed. I still feel the raw burn where it surged up my throat. My stomach still clenches as if trying to make sure every last bit is gone.
How can it be missing? How can a floor clean itself?
Something snaps in my brain, shaking me loose from my stupor. As best as I can, I jerk about, thrashing my arms as I flail them about. More of that strange language meets my ears as whoever these people are drop me to the floor. I do my best to place the accent, but come up short.
It’s not Russian, not exactly. It has some of the harsh tonality and guttural undertones, but it lacks the core of the accent. Besides, I’m not stupid enough to owe the Russians money. I’d drink their vodka until I’m passed out on the floor, but would never borrow their money.
That’s just modeling 101.
Turning onto my back, I stop short as I stare at the blue faces above me. Blue. They’re fucking blue. Why the fuck are they blue?
A scream catches in the back of my throat, mixing with the remaining bile until I’m sure I’m going to barf again. Did I go to a Blue Man Group concert and pass out? Is that what’s happening? It’s the only explanation. That is, it’s the onlysaneexplanation.
At least it is until I look around the room. Women of all shapes and sizes lie still as death on stone platforms that lookeerily like mine. I don’t recognize any of them. None of them has that classic model physique GGM craves for their ambassadors.
In some ways, that makes me feel a bit better, but in other ways, it merely amps up the terror flowing through my veins. It would make better sense for them to kidnap all models or all common people. Seeing as I’m the odd one out, maybe I’m the mistake.
My knees knock together as I stumble backward, doing my best to keep my feet underneath me. It doesn’t help that my vision swims with every blink, making everything blur around me. I shake my head, desperate to fling off this hungover film threatening to keep me unsteady.
“I- I don’t know what you want,” I bark out, rolling my shoulders back to look intimidating. “If you’re looking to make a lamp, you won’t get much out of me.” With a wry grin, I pinch my side. “Eight percent body fat. Every bit of me is tough. Not a good look.”
Words fall flat from my lips as I look down at the body closest to me. Veronica? Chelsea? Damn it. Why can’t I think of her name? She’s probably going to die soon, and I can’t even think of which name to call her. Stupid, stupid alcohol. If I survive this, then I’m definitely getting clean.
You’ll never get clean.
Again, they approach, their mouths moving as they circle in, but I can’t understand anything. I shake my head and box my ears, but it does nothing to fix it. They press forward, backing me into a wall until there’s no way out. This isn’t how I want to die.
As much as I was on a self-destructive path, I was still in control. I never lost it. Not once. Now, I’m set to have everything cut short by some blue ass fuckers in shiny metallic suits. Fuck that.
Once more, I strike out, curling my hand into a fist as I drive it into the stomach of the guy closest to me. Never let it besaid I let some percussive musicians kill me without some bit of retaliation. But as my hand makes contact, pain slithers up my knuckles and into my wrists, sliding into my forearm and up into my shoulder.
Vomit hovers at the back of my throat as the pain makes its way into my brain and rattles everything around. Spots dance before my eyes as I cradle my fist and slump forward. Are they made of marble?
The man strides forward as if I haven’t even touched him. He yanks me up and tosses me over his shoulder like a bag of feed. Nothing. It’s as if I don’t even exist anymore.
The last bit of my vomit hurls through my system as I heave over him, spilling the last of my stomach’s contents down his back. Their odd voices permeate the haze in my brain as he slides me off and places me on the floor. The two go back and forth as they gesture wildly between his back and me.
Still, I have no hope of understanding what they’re saying. Closing my eyes, I grit my teeth as nausea continues to assault me, undulating through my system like waves. “Please,” I groan out in Russian. “Help.”
