No. No. No.

The single thought I allow myself is that, No. As my fingers gingerly gravitate to the tacky mess of hair and skin on the side of my head, I keep my eyes squeezed shut because this is not my truth. I won’t allow it.

My head pulsates, throbbing pain knits tightly behind my eyeballs.

I am in my kitchen. I’m switching on the radio. Dusty Springfield is playing. That song, what’s the name of it, “I Only Want to be with You.” I’m thinking how perfect it is. How perfectly it describes me and Mike. Right down to the line about asking someone to dance.  I’m thinking of his face that night at the birthday party. The way his eyes twinkled under the outdoor lights. That sexy smirk he tossed my way right before he extended his hand and asked me to dance. I’m reliving the butterflies-in-my-belly sensation all over again as I recall the way he whipped me around the dance floor like an expert. How surprised I was that he knew how to dance—really dance. I’m smiling so hard my cheeks have begun to ache as I feel the song playing and sing along, dancing across the kitchen floor, coffee pot full of water for the machine, in hand. I can’t wait to sip my coffee and nestle against Mike in the warm streak of the sun coming through the window.

I turn around and there’s a man.

Not Mike.

I scream as instinct takes over. I hurl the coffee pot at him. He tries to duck but doesn’t quite make it out of the way in time and the pot shatters on the side of his head. Nearly instantaneously blood begins to trickle down his face and drip to floor. I’m legit mad at my galley style kitchen for not giving me ample room to sidestep him before it dawns on me that my anger is delaying me. I charge, arms crossed over my chest, elbows out, hoping I can check him, hockey style, out of the way if I hit hard enough. He spins off balance, hip crunching on the countertop as I pass. My head snaps back, hard and fast as he catches and yanks my ponytail. I open my mouth to scream. I ball my fingers into fists. My heart thuds in my chest and then a searing white pain crackles, like lightning across my vision.

I don’t dare open my eyes. I can’t accept this reality and if I can just keep them closed long enough I can wait this nightmare out. I know I can open them to Mike’s face, safe and sound in my apartment. I will not accept this truth. I won’t.

Glacial liquid hits my face making me gasp and sputter in shock.

“Wake up.” The voice is hostile, gritty. It’s also unfamiliar. I curl up on myself. Knees held tight to my chest. Forehead tucked into knees. I do not open my eyes. Another dousing of water dumped on me gets my teeth chattering. “Wake. The Fuck. Up, Fighter.”

My eyes roll as a pain shoots straight through my temple and embeds itself behind my ear. I try to focus, needing to see at least one of them if I’m going to identify them when—if—I get out of this mess. Jackknifing up, I scurry in the opposite direction of the offending voice while still blinking. The man standing before me isn’t the man from before. It’s not Small Man either. I look him over, scowling.

A deep chuckle rises from him. “Gregor said you were aptly nicknamed.”

A chill runs the length of my spine. The other one. Yuri. I keep my lips pressed firmly together. I’m not in the same room as before. It’s bright in here. Unpainted drywall. A boarded-up window. Old wide pine plank floors. This is a house.

“Look all you want, Fighter, you won’t find any clues as to where you are.” He stands in the center of the room, looking twice his size from my spot on the floor. “We don’t do loose ends. Consider this … what do you call it? Death care?” His accent is thick and hard to decipher. He shakes his head and snorts. “No. Hospice. Yes, hospice. Your last stop before death. These walls, this room will be the place you transition from this world, to another.” He nods, a sharp movement that looks almost comical juxtaposed to his fat neck. I focus on my breaths. In and out. Slow and consistent while he smirks at me, grabs his junk and makes a lewd gesture on a roaring laugh.

“You’ve cost us though. Police snooping. Alexei being watched. Questions being asked. It’s bad for business. It’s not all your fault though, we’re securing your boyfriend right now, so we can appropriately punish you both before your ending.”

My skin ripples with fear steeped in anger. Not Mike too. This can’t be how it ends.

“Up.” Yuri barks, “We take you to room now.”

I press against the wall behind me as he approaches. Another man steps into the room. A huge man with a nasty smile. Everything about him screams sinister intentions and it makes me want to disappear into the drywall.

“Don’t make me need him,” Yuri snorts. I stand, bracing myself with palms pressed firmly against the wall to quell the onslaught of vertigo. “Good girl.”

Like a lamb to slaughter I’m tugged along while they’re yapping in Russian. But I have a secret. I am the violence, the sickness, and the rage they think they possess. I will not go down without a battle.  So many enemies and so many vendettas that it fills up my soul. I catalog every detail of the house as we go. Twelve windows, twenty steps to the foyer from the stairwell, every third step—squeaky floorboard. I’m stuck in this game with its own set of fucked up rules but as long as the sun burns, I’m determined to win.