Regina Saxony
on the topic of wounds
She wrestles with him, straddling his lower calves, “Goddamnit Ilya! Stay still!” She screeches.
“It hurts!” He yelps back. Regina grits her teeth and squints at the wound on his right leg. Taking the rag, she dips it in the alcohol when his eyes are closed. Panting, his bandaged chest rises and falls rapidly, worrying Regina that he might reinjure himself through no fault of his own.
Regina has no sympathy for him and she rolls her eyes in annoyance and fatigue. It’s too much. Working. Ilya. Everything else. Last week she tucked away two fist sized heaps of uncooked dough in her coat pockets, sneaking them out and away to her home to bake for her wounded Ilya. The food was becoming more and more scarce, people turning to mutiny, people killing equally needy family and friends for the slightest bit of bread or milk. “I’ll count to three and then I’ll do it, okay?” Regina suggests.
“Get me a drink,” Ilya demands.
“I don’t feel comfortable…”
“Get me a fucking bottle.”
Regina bites her lip so hard in utter frustration, she draws blood. It drips down her chin as she stands on her tiptoes to retrieve the bottle of vodka. She’s tempted to take a swig, just one fiery swig to take the edge off of her predicament so that she wouldn’t stab Ilya, but she decides against it and slams the heavy glass onto the side table. “I’ll count to three before I clean the last bit of the wound,” she flatly states as her bloody lips purse to nothing at all.
Ilya unscrews the top and turns the full bottle up, guzzling the water-like liquid rapidly. Once he places the bottle back on the table, coughs a few times, and smiles, Regina begins. “One. Two…”
“Holy shit, Regina!” Ilya bellows.
Regina smirks, snipping off a strip of bandage to begin wrapping his leg in. Whilst doing this, Ilya fervently unscrews the top with his teeth once more and gulps another large mouthful of vodka, his chest beginning to steady with the realization it was all over with.
Halfway through her wrapping of his leg, Regina whips her head erratically to Ilya, the open bottle in his lap and a dazed, tired look sheening his sweaty face. It fleets her the last time she saw him completely comfortable. Even in sleep, his face was beyond pained and messily contorted into horrors of war. “Give me the bottle,” she speaks with more edge and foiling than she meant to convey.
Ilya knits his eyebrows together in a stubborn defiance, “No.”
“Give me the bottle,” Regina outstretches her hand.
Ilya shoves it into her hand. Gripping it, Regina turns up the bottle and receives a small mouthful of the beverage. Swallowing, tears welled up in her burning eyes, the strength of the conflagration was what she undermined. “You’re a real fucking baby, Ilya Volkov.”
He laughs heartily, his beam taking up his entire face as she begins to laugh, their laughter echoes off of the cold concrete and they feel each other’s warmth for the first time in a while.
Their love wasn’t a sonnet no way.
“It hurts!” He yelps back. Regina grits her teeth and squints at the wound on his right leg. Taking the rag, she dips it in the alcohol when his eyes are closed. Panting, his bandaged chest rises and falls rapidly, worrying Regina that he might reinjure himself through no fault of his own.
Regina has no sympathy for him and she rolls her eyes in annoyance and fatigue. It’s too much. Working. Ilya. Everything else. Last week she tucked away two fist sized heaps of uncooked dough in her coat pockets, sneaking them out and away to her home to bake for her wounded Ilya. The food was becoming more and more scarce, people turning to mutiny, people killing equally needy family and friends for the slightest bit of bread or milk. “I’ll count to three and then I’ll do it, okay?” Regina suggests.
“Get me a drink,” Ilya demands.
“I don’t feel comfortable…”
“Get me a fucking bottle.”
Regina bites her lip so hard in utter frustration, she draws blood. It drips down her chin as she stands on her tiptoes to retrieve the bottle of vodka. She’s tempted to take a swig, just one fiery swig to take the edge off of her predicament so that she wouldn’t stab Ilya, but she decides against it and slams the heavy glass onto the side table. “I’ll count to three before I clean the last bit of the wound,” she flatly states as her bloody lips purse to nothing at all.
Ilya unscrews the top and turns the full bottle up, guzzling the water-like liquid rapidly. Once he places the bottle back on the table, coughs a few times, and smiles, Regina begins. “One. Two…”
“Holy shit, Regina!” Ilya bellows.
Regina smirks, snipping off a strip of bandage to begin wrapping his leg in. Whilst doing this, Ilya fervently unscrews the top with his teeth once more and gulps another large mouthful of vodka, his chest beginning to steady with the realization it was all over with.
Halfway through her wrapping of his leg, Regina whips her head erratically to Ilya, the open bottle in his lap and a dazed, tired look sheening his sweaty face. It fleets her the last time she saw him completely comfortable. Even in sleep, his face was beyond pained and messily contorted into horrors of war. “Give me the bottle,” she speaks with more edge and foiling than she meant to convey.
Ilya knits his eyebrows together in a stubborn defiance, “No.”
“Give me the bottle,” Regina outstretches her hand.
Ilya shoves it into her hand. Gripping it, Regina turns up the bottle and receives a small mouthful of the beverage. Swallowing, tears welled up in her burning eyes, the strength of the conflagration was what she undermined. “You’re a real fucking baby, Ilya Volkov.”
He laughs heartily, his beam taking up his entire face as she begins to laugh, their laughter echoes off of the cold concrete and they feel each other’s warmth for the first time in a while.
Their love wasn’t a sonnet no way.