I see it too clearly. Her standing in my bathroom glaring at herself in the mirror like she wanted to be pissed off, fingers catching in the ends after I cut it. Annoyed at the sink. Annoyed at me. Annoyed because I touched something of hers without asking. But I remember the way she kept looking at herself after, trying not to look pleased. Trying not to let me see that she liked it.
I saw it anyway.
I see everything now.
Vaska shoved a bag of clean clothes at me I don’t know how long ago. Told me to change. Told the doctor to look at my wrist. Said something about me being useless to her broken. Maybe he was right. Maybe he just wanted me to stop sitting there covered in her blood.
Her blood is gone now. That should help.
It doesn’t.
I look down at the clean shirt stretched over my chest and all I can think is that I had to take off the one she died in.
No.
I slam the thought down so hard it makes my head hurt. Not dead.
Not her.
The doors hiss open somewhere down the hall. Heels tap softly against the linoleum floor.
Heels.
Light. Slow. Familiar.
I lift my head. Vasilisa stands in the doorway. For a second, I just stare.
Maybe because I wasn’t expecting her. Maybe because everything in me is so stripped raw that even seeing someone familiar feels like a blow to the ribs.
She looks small and soft and steady all at once. She’s missing her shadow. Which means he sent her.
She walks over without a word and lowers herself into the chair beside me.
“She’s going to be okay, Mishka,” she says quietly. “Santo said I should come talk to you before you lose your mind in here.”
Mishka.
The name goes through me slow and deep, hitting somewhere old.
She hasn’t called me that in a long time.
Not since everything turned to shit. Not since the distance set in. Not since I started feeling her anger every time she looked at me.
I turn my head and look at her properly.
At the curve of her cheek. The softness in her eyes. The woman she is now layered over the little girl who used to chase after me on unsteady legs and demand piggyback rides until I gave in.
But it lands differently now because she’s not just my cousin. Not just the little shadow at my heels.
She’s my sister. Half-sister.
The word settles mangled and tender in my chest all at once. I don’t say it. I can’t tell her. Not here. Not now. But I feel it sitting between my ribs, changing the shape of her when I look at her.
I clear my throat. “Not mad at me anymore, Kisa?”
Her mouth softens. “No.”
No hesitation. No edge.
