Page 143 of Leave Me Broken

A rough hand grips my arm and drags me the opposite way of the food. I try and fight, I think, but I’m pulled into a room instead. The person pulling me lets go and the rush has my head spinning. I sit, or fall maybe, to the ground.

“Are you drunk?”

I try my hardest to force my eyes open but the room stays dark. I should be panicked being in a random room with someone I don’t recognize the voice of—but I’m not.

“Payson.”

The way he says my name . . . it’s so familiar. Then it hits me through the fog. “Igor?”

“How fucked up are you?”

“I’ve been taking pain meds for my knee. I think I’m having a reaction.”

I’m assuming the hiss of noise is some curse in Russian. He lifts me again and drags me somewhere that smells like a bathroom.

“Throw up.”

It is a bathroom. “I can’t just throw up on command.”

“You do it. Or I will.”

“How—” Two long, I assume fingers, invade my mouth. He jabs and jabs until my stomach is turning, then he shoves my face into the toilet, and I throw up. Then I throw up again without his help because my body hates me. I fall to my back and try to not think about how gross this floor probably is. “Are we in the men’s room?”

“I am male.”

I’m definitely lying in dried piss. The squeak of what I assume is the door because I still can’t open my eyes catches my ears, but I still don’t move. When it happens again, there are more footsteps.

“Fuck, Payson. What have you done?”

I don’t know who that is but he’s Russian too. I’m tugged off the ground and it swirls my stomach and head, again. They set me on the sinks, and someone keeps their arms on my shoulders so I don’t fall forward. Someone with really cold hands removes my brace. I open my mouth to argue but aggressive Russian cuts me off.

I’m finally able to open my eyes just in time to see someone from the Russian team shove a needle in my knee. One of the two guys holding me grabs both my wrists and the other throws a hand over my mouth muting my scream.

The guy giving me the shot scowls at me and mutters something I don’t understand.

“It will help with pain and not make you high,” Igor tells me.

“Is it safe?” The guy holding my mouth drops his hand and washes them.

“Da. Most of us on the team get shots a few times a season.”

There’s a quick but aggressive conversation between the shot guy before I realize he’s not being aggressive, that’s just the way their language sounds. He must not speak English.

Igor nods at whatever he said before relaying that this isn’t a cure all and I still need to wear my brace, but it should help. And to stop taking the drugs.

“Yeah, okay.”

The guy at my knee grabs my wrist and shoves my sleeve up. What is with these guys doing this? He eyes my arm, then looks to Igor who is looking at the newly carved word. Ash wrapped it to stop the blood from transferring onto my jersey, but the stupid guy pushed that up too.

“Me and my boyfriend are into . . .” I can’t finish that sentence.

Igor nods and mutters something in Russian to the guy. He flattens his lips and goes back to taking my pulse. I’m so glad I will never see these guys again.

“Zdes.”

I grab the toothbrush and travel size toothpaste from the shot guy and the other two help me off the counter. “There wouldn’t happen to be any food in that bag, would there?” I ask, after brushing my teeth. Half joking.

“No, but you should eat. It will help absorb some of the drugs.”

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