Page 21 of Refrain

Her hands, braced against the table, are the only things keeping her upright. Her legs quit that job a long time ago. I start to drop the knife. Then I slide it onto the table instead, far enough out of her reach but still within mine.

“You need more stitches,” I tell her, eyeing her hands. “And let’s just hope you didn’t open the ones on your arm.”

For fuck’s sake, I hope she didn’t. The only thread I have left is silk.

“I need…”

“You need rest.” I risk taking another step so that her arm is within my reach. “I hate repeating myself, but hemorrhaging to death isn’t a pleasant way to go. Trust me on that. And, if you fall, you’ll bang yourself up even more.”

She looks up at me with unfocused, yellow eyes. The blood loss will cause her body lasting damage. But the agony… That will drive her crazy.

I lift the vial in my hand and give it a shake. “How about this? I’ll give you something to take the pain away. You stay here for the night. Youdon’thit me over the head with a whiskey bottle, and I’ll give you the money in the morning.Khorosho?”

She eyes me warily—red and green on the same pale canvas. When she finally opens her mouth, I’m not sure if she’ll speak or throw up. “Yes,” she croaks in Russian, along with something I have to guess the general gist of—Make it go away.

Can do. The lit cigarette is still hanging from my lips as I cross over to the fridge and grab my kit from the top of it. I fish a needle out, crack the top off the vial, and draw up just enough to take the edge off.

When I turn around, she’s watching me, part of her face pressed against the table. She clings to the surface, one of her hands braced against my open sketchbook, but she hasn’t gone for the knife, at least. When I approach her with the needle, she holds her arm out. I strip off the sweater she’s still wearing and roll her sleeve up. Thank god for small miracles; she’s pale enough that I don’t have to hunt for a vein. Once the needle goes in, I push on the plunger and watch her face change.

When her pupils dilate, I toss the empty syringe aside and grab her by the arm to lead her to the couch. She collapses on top of it, her head lolling back against the cushions, her glazed-over eyes finding mine.

“Why are you so beautiful?” She shakes her head and sighs. “It’s not fair. You shouldn’t be beautiful.”

I don’t know whether or not to take the word as a compliment.Beautiful. Going off her tortured frown, I’ll assume it’s an insult.

If only she knew. The worst forms of art tend to be the most eye-catching. The most dangerous. Like yellow eyes glaring through a haze of pain, disguising secrets the average observer would be too distracted to see.

If I’m beautiful, then she’s mesmerizing. A fire, consuming anyone stupid enough to stop and stare for too long.

I waituntil I’m sure the drug’s kicked in before I stitch her hand up and wrap the worst of it in gauze. She’s hiding more secrets than just the accent; she’s been stitched up before. In fact, someone went through a lot of trouble to make sure her pretty face stayed that way. The only anomaly is the sloppy scar along her hairline. My guess is that the goal in treating it was making sure she didn’t die.

Tearing my gaze from her, I feel through the dark for one of my cigarettes. A glance out the window doesn’t help me guess the time.

Morning in this neighborhood is usually marked by the sound of a car backfiring as the single mom across the street gets in from her nightshift. She’ll dart into her house for about twenty minutes before rushing to her day job. Sure enough, I hear the mechanical pop as pink light spreads along the horizon.

The growing daylight colors Yellow in shades of gray. She’s knocked her covering off again, though not on purpose this time. Even from across the room, I can see the sweat beading on her skin. She’s fighting something in her nightmares.

She’s losing.

It’s a strange thing to witness from the observing end. She claws at the air while gritting out broken bits of Russian. “Anna…Anna!”

Someone she knows? The dream swallows her back up without any clarification, and she goes limp.

I don’t know how long I watch her. An hour maybe? Longer? I’m not sure if I intend to sketch her when my hand drifts toward a nearby pen. The shriek of a ringtone takes precedence, and I can’t smother a sigh as I grab my cell phone.

“It’s about fucking time,” I answer gruffly on purpose, disguising the sound of my voice. Not that I need to. There’s only one person with this number.

“You know that help you promised me?” a woman wonders, her words distorted by a thick accent. “I need it now.”

“Domi.” I sigh. Relief and dread battle for supremacy, though I’m not sure which one my body decides to feel in the end. “Where are you?”

The options aren’t many. If she escaped the Syndicate long enough to call, she couldn’t have gotten far.

“The downtown precinct,” she says, confirming the second-worst scenario. “For questioning. I don’t like questions. You need to get me out. Now.”

“How am I supposed to do that?” I wonder tiredly. The brush-off is just for show. I already have a plan forming. It’s not a very good one, but it’s all I’ve fucking got.

“Our…friend,” Domi says as if reading my mind. “Did you get her out? She’s okay?”

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