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I vowed that when I got out, I’d never take those things for granted again.
I wouldn’t waste half my life with my nose stuck in my phone, missing the world passing me by, as we all do. And I’ve worked really hard to be here, to fight these moments that threaten to take me under.
When I knew I couldn’t go back to New York, it was my ‘aha moment’. It was my moment to finally break free and start doing something that actually made me happy. It took being kidnapped to make me realize that the things I thought were problems, genuinely weren't at all. And I did all of that myself. Yes, I had the love and support of my sister and my friends, but even they don’t know the full extent of what happened, and they never will.
I thank my lucky stars every day that I got out of it alive. I fought. I believed in seeing the light of day again and that it wouldn’t be in the Middle East.
I don’t know how long I sit there, but when my breathing returns to normal and my hands no longer feel clammy, I let go of my knees and begin to stand.
I’m okay. I got through it.
I head to the shower, eager to wash the sweat from my body. I indulge in the hotel's Bvlgari body wash, knowing it’s far better than any body wash I could afford. The musky but sweet scent invades my senses as I steam up the bathroom, letting the hot water wash everything away.
I know I must stop thinking about Dante, but I can’t.
I just need to know he’s okay.
I wash my hair, too, taking my time as the warm spray soothes my back muscles. When I shut the water off and wrap myself in a fluffy towel, I feel whole again.
The power of a hot shower can do wonders.
When I step out and dry myself, I dress in some comfy sweats and grab some moisturizer.
I smile when I pick up the Chanel bottle. Dante bought it for me when I couldn’t return home to grab more belongings. I’ve never used expensive stuff like this before, but I have to admit, it is pretty nice.
He’s over the top.
My wardrobe is full of designer clothes. Even the Tommy sweats I’m wearing cost a small fortune. I didn’t know that Gucci also made loungewear; it was news to me.
I shake my head, spreading the lotion all over my body, and then I comb my hair.
I wipe the mirror with my hand; the steam hasn’t entirely dispersed yet from the exhaust fan. I stare at myself in the mirror.
I look different.
I feel different.
I don’t know what it is, but I pat my skin with some lotion, then some serum. My stomach starts to feel funny. I step back, holding onto the bathroom sink so I don’t topple over.
What’s happening now? I’ve never been this lightheaded, even during the worst of my attacks.
Maybe I ran the water too hot, yet I don’t feel hot… I feel kind of cold.
I take a few deep breaths then, finding the need to drink some ice-cold water. I walk to the kitchen, but I’ve barely taken the water out of the fridge when I’m running back to the bathroom to vomit in the toilet.
Heaving, I gasp, grabbing wads of toilet roll as I empty my stomach.
It must be something I ate. Food poisoning? I’ve never had it before, but I’ve heard it can be pretty bad.
Maybe it was the Chinese takeout Dante brought the other night, but that was from the restaurant in the hotel. They wouldn’t serve food that’s gone bad. If Angelo finds out, though, someone’s head will roll…then again…Dante hasn’t been sick.
I return to the sink, brush my teeth, and rinse my mouth out. Then I stare at myself again.
No.
I can’t be.
I’m not…
