Don’t understand. Don’t want to.
“You have to go away for a little while. Play the part. Then come home.”
I don’t get it.
I don’t want to play.
I fight the straps again. A wild, useless struggle.
“No,” I rasp. “No, no, no—”
Her face tightens. I see it in her eyes—regret, pity.
“I’m sorry, Maksim.”
The pinch in my neck is small. The heat after it is not.
“No—”
My voice slurs. The ceiling swims.
Home.
She said I could come home.
But the world is slipping, sliding—Gone.
***
My body aches.
I groan as I sit up, my breath shuddering on the effort. Breathing fucking hurts. My ribs are splintered glass. My back burns like raw fire—skin tight over shattered muscle. My chest feels tight, burning, wrong.
I blink.
Once. Twice.
White.
Too much of it.
Ceiling. Walls. Floor.
Padded.
My head throbs like it’s been split in half and glued back together by someone with shaking hands.
I shift, and that’s when I notice it:beige.
Beige shirt. Beige pants. Thin, scratchy fabric. No laces on the shoes.
What the fuck?
I stagger to my feet. Vision swims. Muscles scream. My hand flies to the wall to steady myself.
There’s a door with a small, square window.
I shuffle to it and press my face to the glass.
