Paint Me Anew (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 2)

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The walk back to the cabin in the woods felt like eternity, maybe because it felt like her body was resisting every step. Varya's begging was ringing in her ears. 'Mum, don't go! It's dangerous. We'll think of something else!'

There was nothing else to think of. There was no one to ask for help either. For a second she thought of ringing up Dom, but he'd be sloshed somewhere in a pub with his mates or passed out at his new missus' place. Anya just couldn't stop thinking about Jasmeet, a girl she'd worked with in the shop before the deli. Jasmeet had gotten in trouble with the owner, who'd called the police on her, and they'd taken her two little'uns away. No one ever listened to single immigrant mothers.

The light was on inside, and she stopped in front of the backdoor and lifted her hand to knock. She hadn't realised how much she was shaking until she saw her fingers vibrate in front of her face. An angry thought - that Dom could go to hell with his idea of Fleckney being this fairytale paradise - flashed through her mind. She grabbed the door handle, reminding herself what was at stake, and opened the door.

He was sitting on the floor, his back leaned against the bookshelf that Persimmon had apparently climbed on. His left hand was loosely wrapped around a bottle of whiskey - while the right one lay on the floor, palm up, blood oozing out of a wide cut. There were smears and drops of blood on the floor, on the pieces of the broken vase, and on his bottoms on his thigh. Large tears ran down his pale face, drawing streaks on his cheeks. She could see his chest rise in sharp, uneven breaths, and a shudder ran through his body from time to time, mixed with throaty sobs.

Anya froze in the doorframe, and he opened his unusual eyes and stared at her.

"You're bleeding," she said.

He didn't move, the same aghast expression on his face. Anya made a few tentative steps towards him.

"Do you need me to call someone? There's a surgery in the town, right?" she asked. "I have training, though. Do you have a first aid kit? I can try to help you myself, if–"

"In the kitchen," he said raspily. "In the– in the cabinet on the bottom."

Anya quickly walked to the kitchenette, pulling off her mittens, jacket, and hat on the way. The kitchen was disgusting, filthy and cluttered, and she cringed from the smell of rotting food and vomit. She squatted in front of the cabinet and fished out the first aid kit. There was a half-empty box of medical gloves there as well, and she put them on. There seemed to be no clean dishes, but she found a bottle of washing up liquid, and made a soap and water mixture in a large bowl she had to wash first. She could feel him watching her every step.

She was kneeling in front of him, and, without lifting her eyes, she picked up his hand. It seemed it trembled even more than hers. He twitched when she touched him, and his long fingers curled up weakly.

"Why did you come back?"

"You told me to," she answered. "I need to make sure you don't call the police on my child." He hissed when she wiped his palm. "Sorry, just give it a second," she said and fished out a tube of antiseptic cream. "It's not too deep, I don't think you need stitches. The sides of the cut are jagged, but it should close on its own."

"Are you a nurse?" he asked.

"I haven't finished the programme," she answered. "I had to drop out of college after one year, but treating a cut like this isn't exactly rocket science."

She told herself to scale down her usual sarcastic gob. He was studying her, and then glanced down at his palm.

"I still don't– don't understand why you came back," he said. "No way I made a good impression."