to check on me, but I'm in a horrible state. When the plane lands, we get off, but I don't remember it. I wake up several hours later, not sure what country or day it is.
I look at the hotel notepad.
I'm in Mexico?
How long has it been since I've been home?
You don't have a home anymore.
I wrack my brain, trying to remember if Jonas said anything, but the haze I've been in the last few weeks doesn't allow me to remember much.
Where is Jonas?
I search the hotel suite, but he's nowhere.
The embassy party. Oh God, he's going to kill me for missing it.
I rush to the bathroom, do my hair and makeup as best as possible, and put on a sequin dress and my stilettos.
I need a pick me up, or I won't get through this performance.
My toiletries bag has a small zippered compartment, and I pull out the emergency supply of coke I keep there.
To calm my nerves over what Jonas or another global leader might do to me for not arriving at the embassy on time, I take more than I usually would.
But then again, these days, my normal amount has grown.
I stumble out of the room and down the hall, through the lobby, and almost get outside.
"Ms. Diego! Can I help you?" A man from the front desk runs over to me.
"I need a ride to the embassy right away."
"Sure. Which one?"
A thick knot forms in my throat, and I try to swallow it. "I...I don't know. Oh, God!"
"Let me—"
"Zoe Diego!" A girl's voice screeches, and within seconds a crowd mobs me. People pull their phones out and take pictures and video footage. Strangers grab my arms, yanking me, and trying to embrace me all at the same time.
Everything spins, and I struggle to breathe.
The lobby fills with more people, and lights flash. Someone tugs my necklace off, and the strap to my dress rips.
I'm not standing on my own merit. So many bodies squish me, I'm held up by the crowd.
I pass out.
"Santiago's going to love her," a man says. I don't recognize his voice and try to open my eyes but can't. My heart is racing so fast I think it might explode. I'm lying down on something, but it isn't comfortable, and there are lots of bumps.
In and out of consciousness, I pass. My face is numb. I gasp for breath and taste the metallic blood.
Darkness turns to light then dark again, but we never stop moving. At least, not that I'm aware.
Chills run so deep in my bones I think I'm freezing to death. Tremors mix with muscle aches. A sharp pain shoots through the nerves in my spine.
I need a hit.
"Please." My voice is raspy, my throat is dry, and I don't know if anyone hears me. I repeat it but louder.
I force my eyes to stay open.
Who are they?
Two men, one with greasy long, black hair, and one bald, are in the front seats. I can't see their faces, only the back of their heads.
Must be Jonas’ guys.
"Please," I say in English, thinking they probably are Belizean and don't speak Spanish.
The bald guy turns and speaks in Spanish. "Ah, she's alive."
Fear stirs with my craving for more drugs. But I'm still foggy. I try to sit up but can't. I change back to Spanish. "Where's Jonas?"
"Torres? Don't speak his name," the man screams and spit flies on me.
Oh God. Who are they?
I attempt to sit up again but can't move. New horror bubbles as I notice my legs and wrists tied with a thick rope and three seat belts that secure me to the backseat.
My body flails, trying to go free, but all it does is send pain throughout my limbs.
The bald man watches me, laughing, and the other one joins him.
Tears fall down my face. I weakly ask, "Who are you?"
But they don't answer. The man turns on music. As if to mock me, it's my voice...my song.
He blares the radio, and a new set of chills torture me. My muscles cramp, and spasms grow so strong I scream for them to help me.
Like the last few years of my life, no one does.
When the car stops, I don't notice we aren't moving. Fire scorches through all my nerve endings, and I don't even care where I'm at or who is with me.
I just need a hit.
Delerium sets in, and I beg them over and over to give me a line.