General Fiction posted July 23, 2025

Chapters:

...9 10 -11- 12 ...

tfawcus

Tony Fawcus, ex-RAF Navigator and Junior School teacher, spent 22 years living on South Australia's Fleurieu Peninsula where he ran a small farm and a B&B cottage before his recent move back to Adelaide.

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He is an accomplished poet and is currently at the #84 spot on the rankings.

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A Confrontation

A chapter in the book Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate

Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 11

by tfawcus

Background
Dmitri suffered from catatonia after losing his twin sister, Mira, in a bombing. He discovers an aptitude for art, which is fostered by his carer, Elena. Leila works for Elena.

The following weeks settled into a quiet rhythm. Each Thursday morning, Dmitri would set out on the bicycle with his sketchbook in Stanislav's satchel, slung across his back.

Pavla rarely greeted him with more than a nod, but he had come to understand that in her quiet way, she was attentive to everything. She set out props for each lesson: a battered violin, an old boot, a wooden doll with one arm missing. The early lessons focused on form and tone, and soon progressed to studies of hands and feet copied from mannequins and old anatomy prints. Pavla never gushed and never praised without reason, but when she leaned over his shoulder, Dmitri found himself working harder in the hope of earning a rare compliment.

Gradually, as winter started to cast long shadows on autumn, his strength returned, not just to his legs, but to his hands, to his gaze, and to the way he looked at people and saw what lay beneath their surface. Pavla noticed the change.

One Thursday, as he wiped charcoal dust from his fingers, she said, 'Your lines are growing stronger. There is humanity in them.'

He shrugged. 'I've been paying attention, that's all—and I've been practising.'

She gave him a rare smile. 'Good. Keep watching. Keep drawing.'

***

He regularly ducked into the café on the main square on his way home, and on the rare occasions he could afford it, he'd order a bowl of borsch and some cabbage rolls. Sometimes, if his pocket and his stomach could stretch to accommodate it, he'd finish with a slice of cherry strudel. However, he usually had to content himself with a mug of coffee to keep out the cold. The proprietor didn't really mind, for having an artist in the café added a bohemian touch and was good for business. His daughter, who was somewhat in awe of this brave young man who had managed to quell the dragon, had a habit of topping up his mug for free when her father wasn't looking.

On this particular morning, an old soldier was sitting near the window, bent over his coffee with one trouser leg neatly folded beneath a wooden stool. His face was weathered and lean, and a scar ran down the side of his neck like spilt wax. Dmitri sat quietly, opened his book, and began to draw. Grey clouds filtered the sun to a soft, steady glow and made shadows sharp with clean edges. He sketched quickly. Not just the contours of the man's face or the way he held the mug in both hands, but the slouch of defeat in his shoulders and the tight, watchful way he scanned the room.

Dmitri was so absorbed in his work that he scarcely registered when the bell above the door jingled, and Leila stepped in, brushing a curl from her face. She spotted him before he noticed her, and he glanced up in surprise when she made her way across to his table.

'I thought I might find you here,' she said, 'skiving away with your sketchpad when you should be up at the lodge chopping wood.' She sat in the seat across from him with a mischievous smile. 'If you buy me a piece of strudel, I won't tell.'

Her eyes fell on the sketch, and her voice was low. 'Did he ask you to draw him?'

'No.' Dmitri shook his head. 'I didn't think he'd mind.'

She looked again. 'You didn't draw his injury.'

'I didn't need to.'

Leila's fingers traced the edge of the page without touching it. 'It's powerful. You should be doing more of this.'

He smiled faintly. 'What, sketching strangers?'

'Not just that. Capturing something that others can't—or won't—see.' She gestured at the page. 'You draw pain like it's something holy.'

He looked away uncomfortably. 'That's not what pain feels like.'

She was about to answer when a harsh voice cut through the low murmur of the café.

'Oi.'

A man in a trucker's vest stood near the counter, squinting at Leila. Behind him, two younger men smirked over takeaway cups.

'Where you from then, love?' he asked. 'D'you lot come here to take our jobs or just tell us how to live?'

Leila froze. Dmitri's pencil stopped moving.

'Nice headscarf,' one of the others added. 'All tarted up for the harem, are we?'

Leila inhaled deeply. 'Let's go,' she whispered.

But Dmitri stood.

He closed his sketchbook and stepped between the men and the table.

'She's with me,' he said flatly.

The older man scoffed. 'Lucky you. I hear these wogs are a good lay.'

Dmitri drew himself up to his full height, and through clenched teeth, he said, 'That's enough.'

The man took a step forward. Dmitri didn't move.

A voice came from behind the counter. 'All of you—out. Now.' The proprietor towered over the intruders, his beetling brows bearing down on them like thunderclouds. 'I run a café, not a sleazy, third-rate bar.'

The three men hesitated. Then, with a final mutter, they pushed the door open. The last one spat on the doormat as he left.

Dmitri sat down, hands slightly shaking. 'Are you all right?' he asked.

Leila gave a tight smile. 'No.'

She picked up his sketchbook and handed it to him. Her fingers brushed his. 'But thank you.'

The proprietor and his daughter hovered over them with profuse apologies. Dmitri glanced toward the veteran, who stared at the table as if seeing something far away.

'Is this what I've been fighting for?' he muttered, the bitterness in his voice more than the room could hold.

They left the café in silence. Neither of them spoke for several paces. Their footsteps fell in sync.

Dmitri shoved his hands into his coat pockets. 'I shouldn't have let that happen.'

Leila's voice was quiet and measured. 'You didn't let it happen. You stopped it.'

He shook his head. 'Too late. The damage was done.'

Leila didn't answer right away. She kept her gaze forward, her face unreadable beneath the folds of her scarf. 'It's not the first time, and it won't be the last.'

They passed a shuttered newsstand, a row of cracked benches and a dog tied to a post. Dmitri glanced at the proud lift of Leila's chin and the stubborn quietness she wore like armour.

'Are you always that calm under fire?' he asked.

She gave a short laugh. 'No. But I've had practice.'

'I'm sorry.'

'I know.'

***

They walked towards the outskirts of town, curving past a low wall mottled with moss until they reached the river. An avenue of linden trees lined its bank, gold in the glory of the dying season. They stood in silence on an old stone bridge leading to a meadow on the other side, then, without warning, Leila threw her arms around him and kissed him hungrily, pressing her body tightly to his.

He froze. His hands came up between them, not to embrace but to push her gently back.

'Mira—'

The name escaped before he could stop it.

He pulled away, stricken. 'Leila. No. Oh God—what did I just say?' His voice cracked. 'I’m so, so sorry.'

She stumbled back a step, staring. Her breath caught in her throat.

'Do I really remind you of her that much?'

Dmitri looked away. A crow beat its wings and vanished into the trees.

'Too much,' he said. 'I'm sorry. Truly, I am. You even sound like her sometimes. The way you laugh. The way you disarm me.'

'I don't mean to.' She stepped closer, her voice lower. 'Is that why you like me? Or why you don't?'

Dmitri blinked. 'What do you mean?'

'You're warm, then cold. Like you want something from me and then punish yourself for wanting it.'

He flushed. 'It's not like that.'

'It's exactly like that.' She folded her arms. 'And I get it, Dmitri. You're grieving. But don't use me to bring her back.'

He stared at the desiccated remains of a forget-me-not growing from the blank stone wall.

'I'm not Mira,' she said, softer now. 'I'm not anyone's ghost.'

'I know.' His voice caught. 'But sometimes I forget.'

They stood in a silence broken only by the swirl of water under the bridge.

Then Leila reached for his hand. Slowly. Deliberately. Her fingers wrapped around his. She didn't say anything, and neither did he. They stood like that for a while. A gust of wind lifted her scarf, sending it trailing behind her like a pennant. She let it flutter, her eyes remaining on his.

'Do you want to walk back to the lodge?' she asked. 'You can leave your bike in town. No one would ever think of pinching that old rust bucket.'

'Yes,' he said. 'If you do.'

'I do.'

They set off down a bridleway on the far side of the river. It lay between hedgerows laced with wild clematis and rosehips. Blackberries clustered purple between dark green leaves, tempting but barbed. The world was burgeoning with promise, and it stirred something between them, something delicate and hungry, like a flame sheltered in cupped hands.

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Characters

Dmitri, a teenage boy recovering from catatonia (a state in which someone is awake but does not seem to respond to other people and their environment).
Mira, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena, a volunteer carer looking after Dmitri and aiding his recovery.
Leila, a foreign girl employed by Elena.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher.

Setting: Somewhere in Central Europe.

British English spelling and grammar are used throughout.

Thank you for reading and reviewing. I welcome honest, constructive criticism.

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Artwork by suzannethompson2 at FanArtReview.com

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