Page 55 of Hate You Most

“I took it down the night before you came home,” Dakota said. “The doctors and I thought it would be easier for you.”

She stepped into the bathroom and leaned the mirror carefully against the wall above the sink, adjusting it until it was straight. Her movements were slow and deliberate, as if she were trying not to startle either of them.

“There,” Dakota said softly. “If you want it.”

Viktoriya didn’t move, her pulse thudded against her ears.

Dakota stepped back, giving her space. “You don’t have to look,” she added quickly. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Viktoriya stared back at the mirror, her reflection hovering just out of view. After a long moment, she took a step forward. Then another.

Her breath caught as her face finally came into frame. She barely recognized herself. Of course it was her, but it was a version of herself that was filtered through eight years of time and agony.

Her face had completely changed shape from what she remembered. The softness in her cheeks had vanished, in favor of harsher cheekbones. Light wrinkles settled calmly around her eyes—traces of a million smiles. Her hair was shorter than it'd ever been, falling just above her shoulders in uneven layers. Even shorter blonde pieces fell around the top of her face. It framed her features softly, almost carelessly.

“I don’t remember choosing this,” she said quietly.

Dakota, watching from the doorway, answered just as softly. “You like it this way.”

What struck her most was that she looked older, or that her hair had changed—it was the scars and bruises.

Viktoriya ran her fingertips across the thin scar near her hairline, then over the scar down the side of her face. There was a purple tint under and around her eyes, like she'd been badly beaten.

“I told you,” Dakota said quietly. “There's nothing wrong with you.”

Viktoriya wanted so badly to believe Dakota's words, but she simply couldn't.

October 28th, 2022.

— Dakota Sanchez apartment. Detroit, Michigan.

Dakota had decided Viktoriya needed to socialize with other people than just her. Now that her headaches had gotten substantially better, and they had run out of safe conversations to talk about—they needed to have some friends over.

Having people over that she didn't remember wasn't exactly her idea of a good time, but perhaps Dakota was right. She was extremely bored, maybe some company wouldn't hurt.

“They’re just stopping by,” Dakota said for the third time, glancing over her shoulder. “No pressure. We can call it off if you want.”

“I said it’s fine,” Viktoriya replied. “I want to meet them.”

That was true. She wanted proof that the world extended beyond this apartment, beyond Dakota. She wanted to see how people who supposedly knew her reacted when they looked at her now.

Dakota studied her for a moment, as if checking for cracks. Then she nodded. “Okay.”

The doorbell rang less than ten minutes later.

The apartment filled quickly—voices, laughter. The sound of coats being shed and shoes lined neatly by the door. Viktoriya stayed seated on the couch. She still wasn't cleared for exercise, and if she stood too quickly she became nauseous.

She watched as Dakota greeted them with easy familiarity.

“You made it,” Dakota said, and pulled one of the women into a quick hug. “I wasn't sure you'd survive the traffic.”

“I barely did,” the woman laughed. “But for this?” She glanced past Dakota and froze. “Yeah, worth it.”

Dakota turned. “Volkova—this is Brooke.”

Brooke smiled at her. “Hey.”

The woman, Brooke, was tall with rosy, brown skin, big eyes and long curly hair. She could have easily been a model if she wanted.