Page 52 of Damaged

At least that’s what I would do if I were a Russian criminal.

It doesn’t help that the trench I’m wedged in offers no shelter from the sun. It’s shallow, the sides don’t provide shade, and the sun is at its highest point for the day.

Five minutes pass.

Ten.

There is no sound of the Russian. I don’t want to risk making the noise it would take to use my phone and I’m still not going to show myself, but I’m going to have to pee.

It’s quite the operation, but I’m able to get my pants down, position myself so I don’t end up drenching myself, and pee.

Oh. Oh Lord.

It’s like drinking a glass of water after being thirsty. Like popping a pimple times a million. This is where the term sweet release was first penned.

The burn and pressure subside, and I scoot back up so I don’t have to sit in my own filth. I lie still and breathe.

I let an hour pass doing nothing but counting my breaths and watching thin wisps of clouds pass overhead. They do little to lessen the sunlight.

An hour is all I can take. I’m being baked by the sun. I’ve protected my skin and face, but my insides feel boiled. I’m sweating, and my headache has moved to migraine territory.

I grip a rock in my fist and get to my feet. I have to grimace and hold my head as still as possible to keep it from throbbing. No one comes barreling towards me. Nothing moves in the site.

The Russian is gone.

I walk slowly to another alley and pick my turns carefully so I exit on a busy street. I don’t drop the rock until I’m walking with other women.

I don’t realize how hot I’d let myself get. My vision is blurry. It’s green and purple and yellow like a bruise. A horn sounds close to me, and I realize I’m in the street not on the sidewalk.

This is bad.

That’s about as much thought as I can give the situation. I’m stumbling forward, and suddenly, my arm is caught in someone’s grip again.

Oh no. I can think but not scream. The Russian. But there’s no ugly black tats on the hand that holds on to me.

I turn around to see a blue suit.

James.

His eyes are narrowed and worried. I watch his lips move. He’s asking a question, but I can’t answer. I’m too relieved to seehim. And then my bruised vision obscures him and the swirling black and purple return.

Except this time, it’s all I can see, and everything goes black, entirely.

Sophia

I wake up with a gasp. My flesh is on fire. Wait. It’s not heat, I think as I struggle to breathe. It’s cold. Freezing, searing cold. My skin prickles with goose bumps, but a warm hand steadies my shoulder.

“Hey, hey, hey. You’re okay.” It’s James’s heavy timbre.

I’m in a bathtub. Ice cubes float and clack into each other. An ice bath? I’m confused, but all I can think is to tell him what happened.

“James… I was chased.”

“Shh. I know. The police have been called. Someone saw you get pulled into an alley.”

“It was the Russian from last night.”

“Brock’s already on it. I am, too. You’re safe here.”

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