Esme
When my legs feel strong enough again, I rise off the ground, taking the gun with me. I turn and walk away from the body, venturing deeper into the woods.
I find my way back to the cabin and then, using that as my starting point, I head off in a different direction.
The moon hangs low in the sky, illuminating my path as I hear the scurrying of forest creatures all around me.
Minutes later, I come across a clearing. This is it. This is the place.
It’s bloody carnage everywhere I look. Crimson stains the ground, but I don’t shy away from it. Instead, I leap right over the sticky puddles and keep moving forward.
Because I see him.
Artem.
He’s lying on his back in the middle of the clearing. Nothing else moves. Nothing makes a sound.
I rush forward and sink to my knees at my husband’s side.
“Oh, God,” I whimper. A sob breaks through my façade of calm. I squeeze his hand between mine and say it again—I don’t know what the hell else to do. “Oh, please, God, no.”
I need him to move. To say something. Just fucking blink, goddammit.
But nothing.
Nothing.
Until…
His finger twitches in my grasp.
“Artem?” I say. “Artem?”
Suddenly, the tiniest of motions—his chest rising and falling slowly. It’s so faint I can barely tell.
But it’s there.
It’s fucking there.
He’s alive.
Gratitude floods back into my body. “Thank God,” I breathe. “Thank fucking God.” I bend forward and kiss his forehead, his cheek, his lips.
“Artem,” I whisper, “can you hear me? Stay with me. Please, just stay with me.”
I shake his shoulders, rubbing my hands against his face and slapping him gently, trying to bring him back to consciousness.
His clothes are absolutely soaked in blood. I look for the wounds. A bullet hole in the bicep, a jagged stab wound just above his hip, and a nasty shot buried in the center of his stomach. Each one worse than the last.
I don’t know much about emergency medicine, but it doesn’t take much to realize the obvious: it doesn’t look good.
I rip a long strip off the raggedy end of my nightgown. That one gets knotted around his bicep. The flow of blood staunches at once.
I repeat the process twice more and press the torn, balled-up fabric into his stomach and ribs. He groans each time. His eyelids flutter, but they don’t open.
I stand up, still clinging to his hand, and look around. It’s cold. My skin is raised in goosebumps over every inch of my body.
But I know what I have to do.