Twist Me (Trilogy)

24

Y/N

THE NEXT TWENTY-FOUR HOURS ARE A BLUR IN MY MEMORY.
After I get to my feet, I am dizzy and disoriented, my head throbbing and my body feeling like one giant bruise. There is a din in my ears, and everything seems to be coming at me as though from a distance.

I must’ve passed out from the blast, but I am not sure. By the time I recover enough to walk, the fire consuming the building is almost over.

Dazed, I stumble up the hill and start searching through the smoldering ruins of the warehouse. Occasionally, I find something that looks like a charred limb, and a couple of times, I come across a body that’s very nearly whole, with only a head or a leg missing.

I register these findings on some level, but I don’t fully process them. I feel oddly detached, like I’m not really there. Nothing touches me. Nothing bothers me. Even the physical sensations are dulled by shock.

I search for him for hours. By the time I stop, the sun is high up in the sky, and I’m dripping with sweat.

I have no choice but to face the truth now.

There are no survivors. It’s as simple as that.I should cry. I should scream. I should feel something.

But I don’t.

I just feel numb instead.

Leaving the warehouse, I begin walking. I don’t know where I am going, and I don’t care. All I’m capable of doing is putting one foot in front of the other.

By the time it starts getting dark, I come across a cluster of tiny houses made of wooden poles and cardboard. There is a shallow creek running through the middle of the settlement, and I see a couple of women doing laundry there by hand.
Their shocked faces are the last thing I remember before I collapse a few feet away from them.

                                   

                                              “MISS LESON, DO YOU FEEL UP TO ANSWERING A FEW QUESTIONS FOR ME? I’M Agent Wilson, FBI, and this is Agent Bosov.” I look up at the plump middle-aged man standing next to my bed. He’s not at all like I imagined FBI agents to be. His face is round, almost cherubic-looking, with rosy cheeks and dancing blue eyes.

If Agent Wilson wore a red hat and had a white beard, he would’ve made a great Santa Claus. In contrast, his partner—Agent Bosov—is painfully thin, with deep frown lines etched into his narrow face.

For the past two days, I have been recuperating in a hospital in Bangkok. Apparently, one of the women at the creek had notified the local authorities about the girl that wandered into their village. I vaguely recall them questioning me, but I doubt I made any sense when I spoke to them.

However, they understood enough to contact the American Embassy on my behalf, and the US officials took it from there.“Your parents are on the way,” Agent Bosov says when I continue to stare at them without saying a word. “Their flight lands in a few hours.”