24: Bloodletting, Loveletting

                                    

                                          
"You and I walk a fragile line
I have known it all this time
But I never thought I'd live to see it break
It's getting dark and it's all too quiet
And I can't trust anything now
And it's coming over you like it's all a big mistake
Oh, I'm holding my breath
Won't lose you again
Something's made your eyes go cold
Come on, come on, don't leave me like this
I thought I had you figured out
Something's gone terribly wrong
You're all I wanted"
-Haunted; Taylor Swift
It was cold, and the bed was empty. The house was strangely still and quiet. You didn't think you even heard the birds chirping outside. You had a deep, unearthly sense of foreboding that you couldn't shake or explain away.
Slowly, you rose, walking to the bathroom, then to Katya's closet. You didn't see her anywhere. You pulled on one of her old, worn sweatshirts, one of the few things in her closet that wasn't a piece of couture, but something she wore around the house when she was tired. It was soft, and it smelled like her, and it made you feel slightly better. 
You yanked on a pair of your leggings and slowly made your way downstairs, chewing on your lip. You felt anxiety gnawing at your hollowed-out stomach. 
Downstairs, it was dark, and cool, and you made your way from room to room, looking for Katya. You finally found her sitting on the couch. 
Her hair was loose around her shoulders, curling softly, and she had her back to you, her forearms braced on her knees and her head hung low. Every inch of her body language spoke of exhaustion, of defeat, and your stomach dropped. 
Despite the obvious tension in the air, you tried to put on a happy face. You could be happy for Katya. You could cheer her up. You could put a smile on her face and make her forget. You could be kind to her and gentle and fix every chipped and cracked spot in her glacial exterior.
You slowly walked around and sat on the couch beside her, looking over at her with a small smile on your face. She didn't look at you. 
What little of her face you could see through the curtain of her hair was grey with exhaustion and lined with anguish and a deep, unending sadness that you had rarely glimpsed before. She looked hollow, and it made you want to pour yourself into her, to fill that emptiness inside of her.
"Katya," you said quietly. She turned to you, slowly, and you realized she'd been crying. You flinched back, almost automatically. 
You had never seen Katya cry. Katya, this strong, unflinching human, who never cried, who was your own source of strength... she was crying. Her eyes were red and puffy, and you reached out, dumbfounded, wiping a tear from her cheek.
"What is it, sweetheart?" You asked, your voice soft even as your heart cracked in two. 
A sense of dread was stealing over you, anxiety sinking its icy fingers into your gut. Whatever had happened, it must be truly earth-shattering to cause Katya's mask to slip.
Katya just shook her head and looked at the table. You hadn't seen it when you had first sat down, too focused on Katya. But now, you reached out, picking up the thick manila envelope with Katya's full name on it in block letters. Yekaterina Petrovna Zamolodchikova.
You slipped open the envelope with slightly shaking fingers and tipped it over the table. A stack of glossy photos spilled out over the surface of the table with a sheet of thick cardstock. You spread the photos across the table, and as you began to really look at them, your stomach dropped and you gasped, horror dropping over you like a bucket of ice water.
They were photos of you. 
Glossy, full-color, high quality shots of you walking to work, of you behind the bar, laughing and talking to customers, pouring drinks. Photos of you taking the trash out in the dark alley behind your job. Photos of you walking through the stacks in your favorite bookshop. Photos of you getting into Katya's car. Photos of you - your stomach twisted in horror - in your bedroom, half-dressed, talking to Bob. There was a photo of you, naked, dripping wet, stepping out of the shower and reaching for a towel.