Page 91 of Unhinged

My breath catches, and I try to hold onto the sheets, move into a fetal position, and rock back and forth, but it doesn’t work.

Polina climbs onto the bed next to me, places both hands on the small of my back, and puts firm, steady pressure.

"My god, you poor girl. I can feel the spasms in your back. Breathe, Anissa. In through your nose, out through your mouth," she says, adjusting her hands on my back in just the right way, and then she presses.

Relief.

Blissful, glorious relief.

Like my body was caught in a vise, and she just pulled the release button.

"Oh my god," I gasp. "Whatever you’re doing, that feels better. It feels so much better."

My voice is wobbly and shaky, and I’m still blinking back tears.

But at least now, I can breathe.

"Good," she says in a gentle voice that makes me want to weep.

I’m a fucking mess.

Then she raises her voice. “Matvei!”

The door immediately opens, and he stares, his eyes wide, as she rattles off a list of things that he needs to fetch for her. She tells him exactly where to get them.

"Make it fast! If I think of anything else, I’ll call you!" she yells, applying pressure to the spasm in my back.

She presses her thumbs in circular motions—one clockwise, one counterclockwise.

It feels so good.

I breathe, clutching the pillow as another spasm comes. My cheeks heat with embarrassment. I need to get cleaned up.

"We’ll get you what you need," Polina says quietly. "Let your body do what it’s meant to. This will bring relief from the pain. Just let yourself go through it. We’ll draw a bath when this subsides. I promise, it will get better. You’ll be okay. I’m so sorry."

She says it so softly.

She doesn’t ask questions.

She doesn’t pry.

And in that moment, she’s doing something that brings tears to my eyes for an entirely different reason.

She’s humming something—soft and pretty and soothing—in Russian.

Something I’ve never heard before.

Between the waves of pain, she runs her fingers through my hair, smoothing the damp strands from my forehead. She rubs my back, brings ice water to my lips, and every time the spasms start up again, she does that miraculous pressure-point massage that makes it bearable.

And she’s right.

I’m a mess, but the pain is gradually easing.

"Have you always had this intensity around your cycles?" she asks.

I shake my head. “Only recent years.” And I know exactly why but don’t want to tell her. If I tell her, and she tells Matvei…

"It’s often genetic," she says.

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