Book 2: Swimming with the Fishes

Eleni

My stomach roils. The surface underneath me bumps and rolls. My head aches, and my hands scream with pain so loud I’m forced to open my eyes just to see what happened to them.

The world around me swims together in pieces. Dark walls, lined with something textured. Sound-proofing? No, it’s hard plastic. The carpet under my cheek is equally plasticky. Something smells like gasoline, and for a single horrifying second, I think I’m back in the basement of Frank Lombardi’s garage, and this has all been a dream. Then, my hand pulls my attention again, and I shock back to now.

With aching slowness, I drag my hand up until I can see it. A makeshift bandage rings my palm, soaked through with something red. No, I know what that is. Blood.

My blood.

The ground bumps again, and something moves in my vision other than me. A vision in white, totally distinct from the black of the walls and the red that is all I can understand about myself. I bl