I fumble with the lock single-handedly, cursing under my breath. I’m going to be sick. I am going to be sick, I want to scream, I want to cry, but I have to be quiet. It’s four in the morning, and Dmitri is bound to be asleep by now. I finally manage to turn the key; it’s not that it’s dark or too hard or anything, but my whole body is shaking so bad I can barely stand. My left hand is wrapped in my jacket and blood has already seeped through all the layers. Shit. I push the door open carefully, just enough so that it doesn’t hit the point where it makes that squeak sound. Sidling inside, I close it behind me, not bothering to lock it. I’m going out again soon, if all goes well.

The stairs look like they’ll never end. Why the fuck don’t I have a first aide kit down here? Isn’t there some sort of law against that in a business setting? As I start up the steps, the thought of that makes me laugh. Laughing hurts. But when have I ever abided by the laws? I’ve been getting into shit like this since I was fucking eighteen, but apparently it never crossed my mind that anything this serious would happen. I’m a godsdamned idiot. How am I going to get out of this? I crawl up the last few steps, I hit my knee and almost cry out – I must have bruises all over too. I don’t know how I’m going to explain this. I could just say I got beat up, I guess, but then he’d want to know who did it… I can’t have attention drawn to myself, that’d defeat the whole point of having a cover. I hate lying to Dmitri, but it can’t be helped.

I walk across the floor as quietly I can in my shoes, stumbling into the bathroom. I don’t bother to close the door behind me because the bedroom door is closed and the light won’t bother him. Okay. Okay, I need to clean myself up, I can figure this out, it’s gonna be okay. I flick the light on and wince as I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look like I’ve been hit by a fucking bus or something. Oh. Maybe I can use that. I prod at my face with my right hand; I have a black eye, there’s dried blood coming from my lip and my nose, and there’s fresh blood splattered across my cheeks. That isn’t mine. My clothes are all bloody too, especially my jacket, which I am terrified to take off my hand. Can I do this? I’m going to go to the hospital, but I need to stop it bleeding now. I’ve done this before, to other people, but never myself. If I could ever track down the people I’ve worked with, godsdamn. I’d send them all fucking fruit baskets or something. ‘Thank you’s that this happened to them instead of me.

I like working alone, that’s no problem. Relying on other people is just something you can’t do in my line of work, and I’m used to that. Having other people rely on me? That’s even worse. I don’t give a shit. Getting out of there alive is my priority, not saving someone else’s sorry ass. I open the medicine cabinet and rummage around for gauze. A couple bottles of pills and a box of band-aids fall to the floor, and I stop immediately, listening for sounds from down the hall. Nothing happens, I’m ok. I don’t do anything anyway, taking a couple of deep breaths. Alright. Aaaalright, alrightalright. I gingerly peel the sleeve of the jacket away from my hand. It drops to the floor, leaving a wet, red spot on the tile. My pinky finger is just gone. There’s nothing past the knuckle except a bloody mess. I think there’s a bit of bone sticking out. I throw up in the sink.

Collapsing to the floor, I just sit and whimper for a moment. I think I’ve earned the right. I mean, I got out of this alive, that’s good enough. I did what I had to do back there, I’m gonna get paid. I better get paid fucking overtime for this. Getting my godsdamn fucking finger amputated by fucking garden shears. I shake out the roll of gauze and it bounces across the tiled floor like a ribbon, hitting the upraised edge of the shower. I wrap the end as tightly around the stump as I can manage without passing out. Fuck, I wish I’d had a partner tonight, someone to do this for me. The circulation in my hand is getting cut off, but that’s good. Maybe it’ll stop bleeding. The numbness is welcomed, and I tie off the end of the strip, biting it clean from the roll. I flex my remaining fingers experimentally; they all seem to be in working order. The pain is exchanged for that weird tingly feeling your legs get when they fall asleep, and that’s a hell of a lot better. I stand up again, weakly, and grab a washcloth from the towel rack. I have a lot of blood on me, and most of it isn’t my own. Paramedics will ask questions, so getting rid of evidence is key. Norsat would get me out of any trouble eventually, but I prefer not to get into any trouble at all.

Warm water running, I soak the cloth and wipe at my arms and face. I’m gonna have to change my clothes, I guess. There’s too much blood to just look like I was hit by something – which is the ‘creative’ story I’m going with. I’m tired, in pain, I just want to get to the hospital. I’ll make up details later. I’m feeling a whole lot calmer about this now that I’m bandaged up and busy doing something relatively routine. That’s so sad, if you think about it. This washcloth is going to need bleach. I should have grabbed something else, Dmi’s mom gave us these. She’s a nice woman, though she seems to think I never eat anything unless she makes me. Pelmeni, pirozhki, lapsha... borscht is nasty though. I hate beets. Taste like dirt. His whole family is really sweet, beets aside. He’s got two sisters, and his mom, but his dad died before I met him. They’re all pretty outspoken and bold, just like him. I sigh. I want this to just be over so I can go wake him up and he can fuss over me. I like that. Thinking about all this has put me into a sort of contented trance, so I don’t even notice when Dmitri wanders out of our bedroom.

“Oh, hey, baby,” he mumbles sleepily. “You’re still up? You’re gonna be sleeping all day, huh?” Leaning in the doorway wearing pyjama bottoms and one of my old t-shirts, he hasn’t noticed anything amiss yet. His eyes are down on the floor, adjusting to the fluorescent light of the bathroom from the dark of our bedroom. Shit. I pull off my shirt hastily, tossing it on the small pile of laundry that always builds up in the corner. Doing laundry is a pain because we have to go to the Laundromat, and it’s disgusting. Well, Dmitri thinks it is, I don’t care. Blood has seeped through onto my skin, but it just blends in with the bruises because it’s dry now.

“Y-yeah, I had a bit of an accident,” I say – or croak, rather, because the words come out raspy and forced. “I – uh – walking… on the road.” Apparently I’m not capable of forming coherent sentences right now. I guess that’s good, it adds to the shock factor. I can’t believe I’m concerned about how good my act is right now. His head shoots up and he dashes over instantly, squinting at me. His eyes take in all the bruises and marks, eyebrows furrowed in concern and concentration. I always forget he’s younger than me. He always takes everything so calmly, and he acts way more mature than I do.

“Gods, what happened?” he whispers. “You’re a mess.” It sort of hurts – both how much he cares, and how much he’s poking at my bruises. Ow. My own parents didn’t have the chance to care. They died when I was about 23, only a few months apart. Natural causes, unfortunate timing. I was faster back then. In and out jobs, no one even saw me there. I think it’s for the better… I wouldn’t have wanted to worry them. It’s different with Dmitri. I mean, I don’t like making him worry, but I was so alone before I met him. The only contact I had with people outside of the company was with strangers, customers coming into the shop. It’s nice to have someone to fuss over me and tell me to comb my hair before I leave the house and remind me to not forget to pick up the dry-cleaning. I think I might get away with this again. He spots my hand, still bleeding through the gauze, and cries out.

“A-a car,” I stammer, trying to explain. “Hit and run. Didn’t see the plates.” He’ll accept that – you can’t track someone down if you didn’t see them. Taking my hand gently, he inspects it, looking sick. My finger hurts. A lot. Well, the space where my finger was hurts a lot. I always heard that kind of thing happened, but I didn’t believe it. I want to smile and tell him that I’m okay, but I’m aching all over to the point where I just want to lay down and weep. Dmitri sees the pain in my expression and he lets go of my hand. His blue eyes are so dark they’re almost black, but they’re deep and warm and comforting.

“I’m sorry, lyubimiy,” he says, kissing me. “I’m sorry. Come on, give me your keys. I’ll take you to the hospital, no arguing.” He kisses me again, moving closer. The fabric of his shirt – my shirt, really – brushes against my skin, against all my bruises and cuts, and it burns, but he wraps his bare arms around me and everything is okay, just for a second. But a second is not a very long time, and everything comes crashing down an instant later. As Dmitri’s hands move down my back, I feel something cold and metallic press against my spine, and my heart stops.

He pulls my handgun from its place, tucked in the back of my jeans, held in place by my belt. I completely forgot it was there. I sort of had other things on my mind. It’s not loaded or anything, but it’s still completely illegal and there is absolutely no reason why I would have it, other than… well, doing my job. Dmitri stares at the gun, then at me, and then drops it on the floor like it’s burning him somehow. It clatters on the tile, cold and ominous. He darts backwards, away from me. Fuck. I want him to say something, anything, but he’s just giving me a look that’s a mixture of terror and rage.

“Dmi,” I start, but he just shakes his head and backs up when I step towards him. I stumble because my legs are stiff now. “Dmitri, please, I can explain!” I don’t know what good explaining is going to do. Telling your husband that for five years you’ve been going around killing people behind his back? Yeah, that solves problems. There’s nothing else I can say now though, because no matter what I do, my life is over. He’s afraid of me. He’s never gonna trust me again, never gonna smile at me. I can break into buildings, shoot up complete strangers, talk my way out of just about anything... but I can't fix this. I try and step towards him again and he just shakes his head and dashes out of the bathroom, slamming our bedroom door behind him. For the first time since this all started, I break down and cry.