I slide down the door until I'm sitting, and the tears won't stop. They just come like a stream, and I don't even try to wipe them away.
What did I just do?
I hit him. I screamed at him. I told him I hated him.
And he just let me.
The memory of his arms around me, his voice low, saying I failed you, twists something deep in my chest.
I don't know if I'm angry, devastated, or relieved, or all three at once.
I stretch out my fingers, my hands throbbing from hitting him, and my throat is raw from screaming.
But more than that, I'm exhausted.
Not just tired. Exhausted in a way that goes deeper than sleep.
Emotions drain you faster than anything else. They run you down, hollow you out, leave you motionless once you let them go, especially the ones you've kept pent up.
I push myself up from the floor and slowly walk to the bed and just collapse onto the mattress, curling onto my side.
I clutch a pillow to my chest and cry some more.
Time goes by, and I don't remember closing my eyes.
I don't remember the moment exhaustion pulls me under.
But one second I'm lying there, and the next, I'm fighting to stay awake.
I blink to try and stay up, and I lift my head sluggishly to shake it. When I rest it back down, it's cold.
My eyes shoot open, and I look around.
What the hell?
I'm laying on concrete. It's not smooth, but rough and ridged, and I shift, and the surface scrapes against my forearms.
The air smells rancid, and there's a hint of some kind of disinfectant trying to mask everything, but it's not working.
I sit up as my vision adjusts to the dim light coming through a narrow window high on the wall.
And then it clicks, and my heart drops.
No.
I know this room.
My head starts spinning, and I rub my forehead to try and make it stop. I look around and see that metal door, the flat one with no handle on the inside and that slot near the bottom where they slid food through.
I'm back in Moscow. Back in the room I was put in when I did something bad.
No, no, no. I didn't do anything.
I scramble to my feet and lunge for the door. My fists pound against it, the sound echoing through the empty space.
"Let me out!"
My voice cracks, and I pound harder against the unforgiving metal.