28. Enzo
Enzo
Ouch. Jesus. What the hell is that?
I try to force my groggy eyes to open as I bring my hand up to my other arm.
Where the hell am I?
My fingers brush over something warm and wet, and I hiss in pain.
What happened?
I have a deep cut on my arm about three inches long. Why would they—
My tracker.
Who the fuck cut out my tracker?
My eyes are still struggling to open as I sit up. Another sharp pain stings at my neck, but I don’t feel any cuts there.
Think Enzo. Think.
I was clearing the basement and heard a noise by the bookcase then—
Those mother fuckers. They drugged me!
That’s why my fucking neck hurts. They shoved a needle in it.
Oh shit. They put a needle in my neck. A needle with drugs.
Panic claws at my chest as I mentally start to spiral about what could have been in it.
I start hyperventilating at the thought of my sobriety being stolen from me. Reaching up, I rub my eyes with the palms of my hands, forcing them to open, while simultaneously doing a personal inventory of the way I feel.
Suddenly, my breathing slows when I realize… I’m not high. I’m. Not. High.
I’ve wasted too many years getting lost in that feeling. I know what it feels like, and this is not it.
I inhale a slow and deep breath.
Focus, Lorenzo.
Finally, my eyes finally open, and when the fogginess clears, I look around me, but am beyond disappointed when I see nothing.
I’m in an empty concrete room. No windows. No chair. No table. Not even a pot to piss in. Just a door, four walls, and me.
Fuck.