A Heart Beats At Night

Chapter 10

Content note: This is another dark chapter. General warnings for violence and sadness.

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Otabek Altin woke up surrounded by trees. Dead leaves and damp soil shifted under his body as he blinked, bemused, at the sun-speckled bare branches above him. The tide of sleep retreated slowly and illuminated precisely nothing.

            Not my apartment, his thoughts whispered helpfully.

            Another minute ticked by. His stomach growled.

            Time. What time was it? Otabek fumbled for his phone, letting out a muffled gasp as the muscles in his arm shrieked with pain. A curse – not stifled at all – followed when his fingers found nothing but fabric in his empty pocket. He dragged himself to his feet, ignoring the pangs of protest that sank from his skin through flesh and bone. It was just soreness, if 'just' could be applied here. The day after his Olympic free skate, he had complained to Mila that it felt like a car had run him over and then backed up for another go. This time, it was a freight train with a grudge.

            It was probably morning, judging by the mid-March chill that snapped and teased at his exposed forearms. In a few hours, he would undoubtedly panic and check his hands and feet for signs of frostbite, search for the bloom of broken blood vessels across his cheeks. For now, he eyed the pale sun and started walking in the direction that was probably (hopefully) vaguely south. St. Petersburg wasn't big enough to swallow someone in an endless forest.

            If he was still in St. Petersburg. Otabek rubbed his face, fighting through the pounding headache that had settled between his temples as he struggled to remember some hint of where he might be, and why. His fingers found a wet patch in front of his right ear, and came away slick with viscous clots of blood.

            A walk after dinner, which Otabek had hoped would clear away the lingering traces of the last week's fever. Texting Yuri to see if he'd survived his late afternoon intensive with Yakov and Lilia. The afterimage from his phone had blurred across the dim street, lit only by a couple of flickering streetlights and the rising moon.

            No phone. No wallet, though Otabek wasn't sure he'd brought it with him in the first place. Had he been mugged, left unconscious in some patch of greenery?

            He only had one shoe. The other foot was encased in a wet sock, crusted in burrs and half-dried mud. He peeled it off. The lone sneaker followed, and the renewed balance was a gift that made up for the hard earth under his bare soles.

            An open lawn became visible between the tree trunks and underbrush, crisscrossed with walking paths occupied by a handful of joggers, and he breathed a sigh of relief at the familiar sight. Krestovsky Island, one of his favorite spots for an off-day run, spread out before him. He could get home from here.

            Unfortunately, 'home' was about ten kilometers away. There was a bus route that would take Otabek almost directly to the rink, if he had his transport pass or a few rubles for a ticket.

            A taxi. He would cross the bridge, convince a taxi to take him to the training facility, where Yakov or one of the skaters could spot him the fare until he replaced his bank cards. Failing that, maybe a passerby would let him use their cell phone. Otabek glanced down at his mud-streaked clothing and bare feet, wondering how much crusted blood was smeared across his face. Maybe not. He stepped out of the woods, wondering if someone would see him and call the police, and whether that would be a good thing or not. They'd probably take him home, but it wasn't his preferred method of transportation.