33: Spineless in my Tomb of Silence

                                    

                                          
"Stood on the cliffside
Screaming "Give me a reason"
Your faithless love's the only hoax
I believe in
Don't want no other shade of blue
But you
No other sadness in the world would do
You know I left a part of me back in New York
You knew the hero died, so what's the movie for?
You knew it still hurts underneath my scars
From when they pulled me apart
You knew the password, so I let you in the door
You knew you won, so what's the point of keeping score?
You knew it still hurts underneath my scars
From when they pulled me apart
But what you did was just as dark
Darling, this was just as hard
As when they pulled me apart"
-Hoax, Taylor Swift
Katya drew like a woman possessed. She wouldn't let anyone look at any of her drawings, claiming they weren't any good with an embarrassed sort of flush to her cheeks that you hated to admit you found strangely endearing. 
You allowed her one more day of sitting in bed before you inspected the granulating scar tissue that had begun to form in her bullet wound and you declared it was time for her to start getting up and moving.
"Movement is medicine, Katya," you said gravely, helping her tug an old Eastman Conservatory sweatshirt of Monet's over her head. You were still careful with her shoulder, though it was out of the sling. It still pained her, and you were overly cautious as you rotated the joint to slip her arms through the sleeves. 
"I'm still crippled," she moaned, wincing as her splinted hand caught in the sleeve. You scoffed, carefully working the cuff around the splint. 
It pained you to see her fingers in the splint, knowing that they would have been better off with surgery. You had told Katya she would likely not retain full range of motion in her fingers, that they would always feel slightly stiff, and that she would have been better off with surgery. The guilt ate at you, that you hadn't been able to fix them completely, and Katya must have seen it on your face, for she snapped at you to stop being such a self-sacrificing dolt, and that she was lucky to be alive, and that besides, it wasn't her dominant hand, anyway.
"Don't be such a baby," you said, squatting and carefully slipping her feet into a pair of Monet's old sneakers. Katya's feet were smaller than yours, and you didn't want her clomping around in a pair of shoes that were too big and having her injure her ankle further.
Katya let her head drop back on the pillow, huffing in mock outrage. You ignored her, slipping an arm under her back and helping her up into a sitting position. She hissed a breath through gritted teeth as her stomach muscles clenched, and you made sure she had her feet under her before you looped your arms under hers and helped her slowly to her feet. 
She was much more steady than you had expected, even with the sprained ankle. She gripped your hand as you led her on a couple rotations of the living room and kitchen. 
Monet was on the couch, and she grinned and offered praise and encouragements as Katya shuffled around, giving her a thumbs up. Bob just watched from her spot at the kitchen table, face carefully blank.
"Are you driving with me to work later today?" She asked, and you started, remembering that you had been scheduled to meet with two of your students today. 
You nodded. "If that's okay." Bob just stared at Katya, who had begun to sweat and who looked like she was visibly in pain, her hand pressed to her side. You began to make your way back to your room, murmuring praise in Katya's ear the whole time at how well she had done. 
She was pale and sweaty as you helped her back into bed, her breathing picking up and her good hand clenching at the blankets. You double checked that none of her wounds had reopened before you put a couple books on the nightstand for her and picked out a cream colored sweater and slacks, taking them into the bathroom to change.