The doctor made a hmm noise, apparently not impressed with this man helping me. No surprise. Doctors were no fun.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” Ronan translated.
I stared at his other hand resting on his knee, at the tattoos on his fingers in between the first and second knuckles. One was a cross, another a raven. The third, a king of hearts playing card.
Ink and déjà vu.
I didn’t know what was wrong with me, but I couldn’t stop myself from touching him, from drawing an index finger down the tattooed raven. The whispered words were pushed from my depths by an irresistible force.
“Darkness there, and nothing more . . .”
The quote condensed the space between us, dipped in something as thick and dark as tar.
I was sucked back into a tunnel, reading Edgar Allan Poe under my papa’s desk, with dirt on my face and uneven bangs I’d cut myself. Papa was speaking to Ms. Marta, my childhood tutor, unaware I was near. He was concerned about my imaginary friends and lack of real ones, my introversion, and my disinterest in schoolwork.
He thought something was wrong with me.
I thought so too.
Those whispered words in the hall coiled inside me like a snake sinking its fangs in and slowly spreading poison as the years passed by. Poison that sent me on a warpath to acceptance.
Sometimes, it was the little things that made us who we were.
The heavy, empathetic look in Ronan’s eyes tightened my stomach like the click of a trigger. I didn’t expect him to understand what I said, but he did. I knew he did.
“Sleduyushchiy vopros,” Ronan said. Next question.
The doctor frowned. “U tebya yest’ sem’ya, s kotoroy ya mogu svyazat’sya?”
“How old are you, moy kotyonok?”
From the way the doctor’s eyes flared in disapproval, I realized he understood that English phrase, and it wasn’t what he’d said.
I answered, “Nineteen,” before remembering I turned twenty yesterday.
The doctor released a tense breath. “Devyatnadtsat’. Yey devyatnadtsat’.” Nineteen. She is nineteen.
Ronan didn’t look away from me. “Ya slyshal.” I heard.
I hardly listened to the exchange because I was trying to remember what “moy kotyonok” meant. My, what?
“Have you been . . . violated, Mila?” I watched the dark blue of his eyes grow black.
For a moment, his question confused me. A cloud obscured the entire scene in the alley as if it happened to someone else and I’d merely watched it unfold. It didn’t seem real, and when I thought of it, I felt nothing but mild annoyance, which probably put me in the same crazy category as my papa’s tenants.
I shook my head.
“Good.”
Just a single four-letter word, but it ballooned in the air like the most important thing in the room. His voice was so rough and soft. So composed and accented. So lenient in its delivery it slipped beneath my skin, melting the tension in my body like butter. I bet people went out of their way to listen to this man talk.
“Do you have any pain besides your head?”
I nodded, staring at him.
A smile touched his lips. “Where?”
“My side.”
Ronan rose to his full height. As he and the doctor spoke, a boy—the one I saw carrying a crate of liquor—entered the room with my duffle bag in his hands. He dropped it beside the couch and sent a glance of disgust my way.
Ronan eyed him in silent warning. The boy swallowed and turned to walk out of the room.
“Kirill would like to take a look at you, if you will let him.”
I nodded.
When Ronan headed to the door, I got to my feet, fighting a spell of dizziness at the sudden move.
“Wait,” I blurted. “Where are you going?”
He turned his head to study me with cautious eyes. “Giving you some privacy, kotyonok.”
I chewed my lip, not knowing what compelled me to ask that. I was confused. And I really didn’t like doctors.
“Please, stay.”
Kirill sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
After a pensive moment of silence, Ronan inclined his head and walked back to his desk. I was oddly comforted he would stay.
Kirill stood, pulled a flashlight from his dress shirt pocket, and checked my pupils. He listened to my heart, my breathing, and examined the back of my head. My gaze kept landing on Ronan, who leaned against his desk doing nothing but watching the scene.
When Kirill spoke, I pulled my eyes to him. He must have noticed where my attention was during the exam because his expression was tight with disapproval.
“He needs you to remove the jacket.”
I loosened my grip on the lapel and shrugged it off my shoulders to the floor. A red bruise, the shape of a hand, marred my waist, which explained why my ribs ached. But what I focused on was the dried blood on my stomach. Now, I noticed it was underneath my fingernails as well.
All of the warmth inside me went ice-cold, sending prickles down the back of my neck.
I didn’t do blood.
A shaky exhale escaped me. My stomach turned. The room began to blur. I swayed, blackness tugged on my subconscious, and then it dragged me all the way under.
When I awoke, it was to a dry mouth, Kirill’s frown, and Ronan crouching next to where I lay on the couch.
Realizing I’d fainted, I closed my eyes again.
As a child, I had anxiety attacks before getting a shot or having my blood drawn. Papa used to hold me down for my vaccinations until I eventually passed out. Even now, I’d rather cast my own broken arm with duct tape than go to the doctor’s office.
Ronan held out the green can of soda Kirill handed to him. “You’re not going to pass out on me again, are you?”
I sat up slowly, closed my blouse with one hand, and took the can from him with the other. Nobody but a small few knew about my phobia. I forced myself to watch gory horror films to get over it, but it only desensitized me to Saw movies, not real life.
“I’m not the biggest fan of blood,” I admitted.
He eyed me with curiosity, like I said something amusing. “Interesting.”
“I’m sorry. You look like a busy man, and I’m sure I’ve ruined your entire night.”
“Drink your soda, kotyonok.”
I did. The cold fizz felt good on my throat. I licked my dry lips and looked around the room, from Kirill’s frown, to a crack in the plaster walls, to the frayed carpet. It wasn’t exactly a trendy executive office.
“I’ll reimburse you for everything,” I said. “The doctor and—” I glanced at the can in my hand, which amused Ronan.
“I’ll add the soda to your bill,” he said.
At that moment, I realized I completely overlooked his expensive suit, believing he’d have trouble affording a private doctor’s visit. Suddenly understanding he was only playing with me, I met his gaze.
Click.
It wasn’t the pull of a trigger. It was him clicking a pen in his hand.
“U neye sotryaseniye mozga, i ona dolzhna byt’ osmotrena v bol’nitse,” Kirill said.
“He believes you have a mild concussion,” Ronan translated. “The symptoms might last a few days.”
I guessed it explained my odd thoughts and behavior. However, I was already feeling a little better now I had some sugar in me. The lack of food and sleep probably didn’t help the situation.