The cold metal barrel dug into my stomach, and it became the sole focus of my being. That, and the money. I’d give them the money. Make them go away.
I reached back, and Clipboard immediately drew a pistol. Baranov recoiled, pointing his gun lower. Now the hole would be in my heart and not my head. But I chanced it and pulled the stack out. I straightened my arm, holding it in offering. It shook. Hard.
“Well, look at that.” Clipboard huffed and took a step forward to snatch it out of my hands. “You always keep a thousand dollars on you, little bitch?”
My punishment came fast. Clipboard pitched his arm back, and the butt of his gun came down across my cheekbone. My head rang, and something split, splattering across my face.I grabbed for my Makarov and had it out—but couldn’t see anything through the film of red. My vision swam, and the two men were just gray shapes against the yellow wallpaper.
“It’s not worth it,” I heard one say. “Just drop it. She fires, we fire—we have problems. Leave it.”
“The cunt pointed a gun at me!”
“I said leave it. If the neighbors call the police, it will be a whole thing.”
My chest heaved, and I couldn’t feel my arms, but kept them up even after the door shut leaving me alone on the floor of the entrance hallway. I didn’t drop the gun until they slowly began to fail. Then I absently pulled it close to my chest and sat like that, staring. A tear, or blood, flowed shyly down my right cheek, and my head ached and was somehow numb all at once.
Something was burning; the scent stained my nostrils and mixed with that of iron, and then disappeared entirely because my nose plugged up.
It couldn’t have been long, but time ceased to exist in that little, dark space.
I heard the running footsteps, but they didn’t inspire fear because if the men came back, I was dead anyway.
* * *
About Russia:
pilaf– rice dish often made with meat
27
Aftermath
The door swung open without a knock, and Misha burst through.
“Blyad!” He dashed, falling on his knees beside me. “Fuck! God—fuck!”
He didn’t touch my face, but his hands hovered like he thought about it. Then, he settled on lifting the gun out of my hands. Careful-like, with his pinkie out, like someone fancy drinking tea.
“Katya, you there?” he asked. I nodded. “You can hear and see me?”
Nod, nod.
He scrambled to his feet, the motion comical for a man his size, and disappeared into the kitchen, where he immediately swore. The hiss of water from the faucet turning to steam over hot metal brought about another wave of something burnt.
“Katya—listen,” Misha stammered as he sprinted back. “Vitali can’t know I told you to make soup.”
“Right,” I agreed agreeably. “He hates soup.”
“Fuck!” Misha hissed. “Oh, they got you good. Fuck. Alright, just hang on.” He ran off again, returning with a plastic-wrapped frozen slab of meat, and helped me hold it to my face. “Can you stand?”
“Where is…” I started, but someone else appeared in the door, and I got the sense that everything would be alright now.
Vitali didn’t say a word, but he moved fast, and his warm hand took mine.
“How bad is it?” he asked, so calmly I wasn’t sure he saw I was in the room.
“There’s a lot of blood, but she was talking,” Misha said. “Not completely coherent, though.”
“Get me a wet towel.”
