tamsin.
there is blood spatter covering her white coat. a mark here or there would cause no pause to tamsin on a normal day, but she can feel warm wet specks on her face as well, a macabre facepaint of freckles, and she is unnerved. if this were any other situation, she would have been jumping into action, one hand’s fingers on the man’s neck to check for a pulse, the other pressing onto the wound. but she cannot move. she can’t bring herself to walk over to the body, or even to the woman. she just stares.
her mother had told her to be careful and, when tamsin left london, she had assured her that all would be fine, that the most danger she would be in would be from the cold and harsh winters or cars speeding when the shouldn’t be. yet now she stood, blood pooling on the floor, the puddle finally just breaching the toe of her shoe, and all she could think of doing was calling her mum to say how right she had been. this is bizarre and insane. things like this don’t happen, not to her, at least. not to good people.
the day had started out fine, too, at least as fine as treating children with tuberculosis could be. she had given care to the few patients who had come in, humming quiet songs to ease the childrens’ fears about the strange doctor with too-cool hands who spoke in broken russian. by the end, most had soft smiles on their faces and a lolly in their hands. as long as by the time they left, the expression of fear in their eyes had dissolved into something of relief, she could be happy. it’s all she could do. it’s all that she wanted to do.
and tamsin had never wanted for herself. from when she was a little girl with pigtails, her allowance went into the donation coffers at the grocery stores. she’d offer half her lunch to someone who had even a morsel less than her. her becoming a doctor was no surprise, if anything it was most fitting. she’d give up the last of her being if it was only to help someone else.
but never in her wildest dreams did she imagine this. a man had walked in and, before she could ask how she could help him, his friends had trailed inside behind him. they said they wanted money, they wanted anything she had that they could sell for money. tamsin had told them no. they laughed at her and they repeated themselves, starting to close the gap between them by taking a few steps foward. again, she said no, a wobble in her voice and her shoulders beginning to shake. they grew angry and aggressive, and her eyes had been burning with unspilt tears as she tried to stand her ground. it wasn’t her money to give, she explained, or tried to, but then a woman walked in and tension reached a point.
the sound of someone’s heavy breathing has taken over, louder than the woman’s voice – a voice in the back of her mind is saying it’s yours – and everything is just wrong. the room around her is vibrating or maybe she is shaking and she doesn’t know what to do now. it’s an unfamiliar feeling but this entire situation is new. there’s blood on the floor – her floor – and it will surely leave a stain on the carpet. rationally, she knows that’s not what she should be focusing on but –
all she knows that there’s a dead man on her clinic’s floor and the woman who shot him is still standing just a few feet away.
❝ it’s all fine – i’m fine. ❞ her voice is high-pitched and it is wavering. she’s not doing well to convince herself, and she can hardly think that the woman will believe her. her eyes dart over from the woman to the clock on the wall. ❝ the clinic is open for a few more hours. i need to – i need to get him out of here. if someone comes in, they can’t see this. they can’t see him. ❞
leave it to tamsin to be singularly focused. she doesn’t care about herself. she cares only about whoever else might come in. what does it matter that she is shaking like a leaf ?? what does it matter that she doesn’t think she’ll be able to close her eyes tonight without seeing that man drop like lead at her feet ?? the fact is – it doesn’t.
sometimes iona forgets the way that violence is supposed to ache, the way death is supposed to make her feel guilty. she knows that she’s no sociopath, not with the rules she enforces upon her subordinates, but she knows that she’s become detached. maybe it’s a way of survival or maybe it’s simply the choice that she’s made in order to bear the weight of her inherited crown, but either way, she’s sure it’s not going away anytime soon.
there’s a dead man and her hands aren’t red, but the blame is on her.
no, she reminds herself. she is not the reason she pulled the trigger. the doctor in front of her is not the reason she pulled the trigger. the reason for the bullet was the man’s actions; it was suicide, not murder. if that’s the justification iona needs, then it’s the justification she’ll use. better than spending her life lamenting over what could have been, over the lives she could have spared, over the mercy she could have shown. after all, showing mercy in front of men like him is good enough as handing him the gun.
kindness is an open wound and some days she grows tired of stitching herself up.
but, rather than dwelling on the guilt she doesn’t feel, the blonde turns her attention to the trembling doctor in front of her. her russian is decent but broken and she figures trauma isn’t going to help when it comes to translation, so she slips easily back into what she’ll never admit is her first language. ❝ you should work on being a better liar, daisy. they’re gonna eat you alive if that’s the best you’ve got. ❞ there’s a distant new york accent in her words, more audible in her english than her russian and she hates the betrayal of the sound. she’ll never be a native; she’ll never be more than a foreigner in her home land. ❝ if it’s any consolation, he had that coming. if it didn’t happen here, it was gonna happen eventually. ❞
at the woman’s insistence of getting rid of the body, iona can’t help the somewhat surprised laugh that escapes her as she tucks her gun back against her leg. ❝ that’s your worry right now? you were, optimistically, nearly murdered and you’re worried someone leave a bad yelp review on your dinky little clinic? ❞ it’s not nice, but she’s used to dealing with people a lot more rough than the tiny woman in front of her. tact is less valuable than bluntness in her line of work, though she figures the opposite is true for the stranger.
there’s a pause for a moment and she purses her lips, eyes flicking between the body, the woman and the door before she lets out a sigh. there it is again, that open wound right across the center of her throat, red and raw and waiting for someone to exploit it. ❝ i’ll call my guys. better guys, not like them, ❞ she says with a nod to the door, pulling her phone out and dialing a familiar number. ❝ he’s my garbage to pick up anyway. should have tossed him out weeks ago. ❞
after a brief and intense conversation in russian, she hangs up and turns her attention back to the woman. ❝ there. they’ll be here in a bit to get rid of him. in the meantime, let’s get you looking a little less like a jackson pollock painting. ❞












