@yvrcchka
Otabek froze, knowing he was one wrong move from being sliced apart six ways from Sunday. His head was cloudy and he wasn’t even sure how how he came to be in this position. He paused and carefully considered the blond man holding the sharp point of a knife against his chest. This man had all the power and they were both well aware. Otabek glanced downward, taking stock of his appearance. His clothes were tattered and nondescript. Reaching up he felt his face. He was not well groomed, he felt an itchy growth of stubble taking root on his face and his once neatly trimmed hair was shoulder length and tangled.
He panicked as the blond in front of him clearly grew impatient. ‘Why can’t I remember a goddamn thing?!’, he silently demanded of himself. He knew his name, that he was from Almaty, and that he was basically the only professional ice skater from Kazakhstan. He knew what he should look like but for everything holy he had no clue why he didn’t look like the Otabek Altin in his head.
Resigning that he wouldn’t figure anything out in his current state he struggled to choke out a plea to the threatening man standing toe to toe with him, knife ready to tear at the Kazakh man’s sensitive flesh. Otabek rambled, his voice starting at a desperate and frenzied plea, “Please… I don’t- I don’t understand what is going on. I don’t even know where I am, I don’t know why I don’t look like myself! I don’t even feel like myself…. I don’t even know who you are! Please don’t do this…’ he finished, his trembling voice barely a whisper.
