The medic had changed Oksana's bandage after once again wiping her mostly scabbed over wound with antiseptic. Mr Pargrave had remained in the room for the entirety of the examination this time. Perhaps he was concerned that Oksana would follow through with her threat and cause some bodily harm to Kenny the weedy little medic. It would be so easy to do and it would probably feel good too. Especially today. But Oksana had remained silent throughout, she was well aware that sometimes silence was more unnerving than barbed insults and gnashing teeth.

Now, back in her cell and with only dinner to break up a long evening ahead, Oksana was forced to relive the events of the day. She had finished the book Mr Pargrave had given her within a matter of hours. Maybe she should have savoured it but the moment she stepped into Dostoyevsky's descriptions of the streets of her home, she had become ravenous for more. She ached as she read, she always did. She had not grown up in the 19thcentury St Petersburg but so much of it was recognisable to her still. And those words of loneliness, they filled the hollow of Oksana's chest with familiarity. She had not deserved the hand she had been dealt, and neither had her father. And now separated as she was from everything she held dear… Well, today she could admit to herself that she was lonely.

She had planned to enjoy her visit to the fat psychologist, she had made a bet with herself that she could make her cry within the first twenty minutes of their appointment. But Mr Pagrave had blindsided her en route to the consultation room by saying it would not be the fat psychologist this time, but somebody new. He had done that on purpose, she knew it; he had withheld that information in order that Oksana wouldn't have time to decide what to do with it.

She hadn't planned on her little acting exercise. Hadn't planned to slip into that meek character, it had happened naturally. Self-preservation, she supposed, a way to allow her the time assess her surrounding. She had seen that timid character before; it was the role of many of the new girls Oksana had seen over the years arriving in the prison for the first time. They had doubtless heard rumours about prison, about the dangers that could befall them here, and they tried to make themselves small, inconspicuous, allow themselves time to judge the threats without drawing attention to themselves. They were the easiest to split away from the herd, a mere empty offer of advice and friendship had them hanging on Oksana's words every single time. It's impossible to know who might be useful down the line. Her father had taught her that. Oksana didn't have his patience though. Or his interpersonal skills. She was easily annoyed and more often than not, these fresh inmates were more fun to fuck with than anything else. Sometimes literally. Besides, entertainment in a place like this is useful. That is how Oksana would explain her behaviour to her father if she were able.

Oksana thought she had played the part well. And yet, that woman had bested her. She had seen through it. Initially Oksana had been quietly impressed, but as their consultation had continued she found herself becoming more and more irritated by the woman. She refused to answer Oksana's questions. They were not invasive questions, not nearly as invasive as the questions the woman undoubtedly planned to ask Oksana in due course. Is it really too much to want to know someone's name? Dr Polastri hadn't budged though, she had backed Oksana into a corner and now there was yet another person who referred to her just as her surname. It was a good surname, of course, and within certain circles in Russia it was both feared and revered. Oksana was proud to bear its weight. But a part of her, a very small part that was buried deep within her and lodged between her ribs, longed to hear someone use her name. Her first name. The one that had been chosen specifically for her.

"Hello Oksana."

That initial greeting today, that had felt good. Dr Polastri had a relatively low voice, slightly husky, very sure of herself.

But no. That woman had left Oksana no choice but to revoke the use of her first name. She had refused to react to Oksana's games and briefly she thought this Dr Polastri with the beautiful hair and the clothes that Oksana yearned to touch, to feel the quality of, might be a worthy opponent. And then she had suggested that the bastard had been her father. Oksana had felt bile rise in her throat at the suggestion, acidic and angry.

What kind of psychologist failed to read such a vital part of her file? Dr Polastri hadn't seemed inept up until that point. She had called Oksana out on her bullshit with utter confidence, she had sidestepped her demands and it had been irritating but impressive. Then she fucked up colossally. If Oksana hadn't been focused on trying to find a way to unseat this new adversary she would have noticed earlier that the good doctor wasn't all she was cracking herself up to be. Except… Oksana had been focused. She had watched the other woman temper her responses and school her features. So why did she then make such an obvious mistake? It made no sense. Unless… It wasn't a mistake.

Oksana lifted her head from where it had rested on her thin pillow. A wave of realisation washed over her, a confusing mix of fury and admiration. Dr Polastri had done that on purpose. She knew full well that the bastard wasn't her father. She was playing Oksana at her own game. She just wanted a reaction. And Oksana gave her exactly what she wanted. She, Oksana Astankova, walked head first into a trap laid by that diminutive doctor with the amazing hair. It had been a calculated mistake, a conscious error to test Oksana… Dr Polastri was a smart woman.

She was married to a man though, Oksana mused. That was surely a waste, but never mind. As the doctor said, everyone makes mistakes.

A smile spread across Oksana's lips. Maybe these five months of appointments would be fun after all. It had been so long since she'd had a real challenge, something to truly sink her teeth into. And when Oksana sank her teeth into something, she didn't let go until it was defeated.

Oksana was just ruminating pleasantly on that thought when there was a loud clanging and the door to her cell opened. It was one of the female prison guards, one of many of the personnel who had no great love for Oksana Astankova.

Oksana peered over the side of her bunk and raised an eyebrow pointedly.

"Oh good," Oksana drawled, "Room service."

"Cute." The guard replied gruffly. "Letter for you."

Oksana swung herself over the edge of her bunk immediately, forgetting again the wound in her side and feeling it tear. She landed heavily and this time was unable to hide her pain as she crumpled to one side and gripped her ribs. Her sudden movement had been intended to startle the guard, but the guard merely chuckled as she observed Oksana's wilted stature.

"Thought you were meant to be clever." She said, "I heard about your little injury."

Oksana straightened herself to her full height and held her hand out.

"My letter." She snarled. "This should have been here weeks ago."

"It would have been if it didn't have to go a translator to be checked first. Get your uncle to write in bloody English and you will get your precious letters quicker." The guard replied coldly.

"Give it to me." Oksana said, shaking her hand that remained outstretched.

"Ask nicely." The guard said with a smirk, holding the envelope tauntingly out of reach.

"Please." Oksana said through gritted teeth. Normally she would never stoop so low as to give into the sadistic demands of these sad women.

"Wasn't so hard, was it?" The guard said smugly, handing the already opened envelope to Oksana who snatched it away instantly.

"You're always so uptight," Oksana said to the guard sympathetically, happy now she had her letter, "What's wrong? Not getting any?" she asked with a pout.

The guard clenched her jaw. And Oksana laughed.

"You need to relieve a little tension, hmm?" Oksana continued, "I'm sure one of the new girls would be all too happy to help you out."

The guard remain silent, but Oksana watched as her nostrils flared.

"I would do you myself," Oksana said pleasantly, and then dropped her voice to a whisper, "But I don't think you could handle me."

Oksana winked and watched the guard clench her fist and then unclench it.

"You're bleeding." The guard said abruptly and nodded to Oksana's stomach. "Hope it's not too painful for you." She added acerbically and backed out of the cell, the door clanging shut behind her.

Oksana kept her gaze on the guard until she was out of sight and she heard the familiar sound of the lock being engaged. Then she looked down and examined her sweater. Sure enough, a rosette of crimson blood was seeping into the grey material.

"Shit." Oksana hissed.

She tentatively peeled the sweater away from her wound, wincing as it pulled at her flesh before tugging what had been a fresh bandage from around her ribs. She lifted her sweater over her head and felt the wound burn as she did so. There was a fair amount of blood there now, oozing steadily from the gash and then flowing in red rivulets down the plain of her stomach.

Oksana sighed in frustration and pulled a t-shirt – grey, of course – from the lower bunk, bunched it into a ball and pushed it firmly against her side. She held the t-shirt against her side whilst she heaved herself one handed up the ladder to her bunk, the letter clenched securely between her lips.

For the past eight years Oksana had lived from letter to letter. When one arrived she would feel her heart lighten and she was devour it, pouring over every word that spoke of home. But they would last a matter of minutes and then she would sink again, sometimes further into the shadows than before, and she knew it would be a long wait for another glimpse of light. The letters were read before they reached Oksana, and in order for that to happen, they had to be read by someone who understood Russian, was familiar with its alphabet. Luckily for Oksana, that person was not always the same one it seemed, or perhaps by now the interpreter would have cracked the same code that Oksana had. It had taken a while. The first few letters from home, from her 'beloved uncle', were utterly bizarre. Oksana didn't have a pet dog, certainly not a poorly one named Lubov who had been confined at the vets for longer than the family had anticipated. She didn't have a friend called Sofia, and she had never even been to Gdansk.

Oksana had read and re-read those letters. Konstantin wasn't crazy, so there must be something here she was missing. She was smart enough not to ask for clarification, but to play along in her return correspondence until this hazy new language they were speaking became clear. And it had. In time, Oksana had learnt it as fluently as she had learnt French. Or at least as fluently as she had thought she had learnt French until Dr Polastri kicked her confidence on that one. Oksana would have to work on her pronunciation somehow…

And what had dear old Uncle Konstantin got to say today? Oksana's father was well. Konstantin was still able to visit him privately; evidently the right people were still accepting the compliments of the Astankovas. Not for the first time, Oksana wished that, if she had to have been imprisoned, it could have been in Russia. Her people could better help her there. She would have to tell Konstantin about her upcoming parole hearing. Maybe now, finally, there might be a way for him to… move proceedings in the right direction. Oksana didn't dare to hope.

What else? The snow had fallen thickly this year and it had made life more difficult. Ice caused dangerous slips-ups. Konstantin feared for the animals in the forest as they struggled to find enough food. He pointed out though, how fortunate the bears were, for they were able to hibernate, safely away from harm, until spring came again. Then there was a whole bit about how beautiful spring would be… Sometimes Konstantin really found his poetic side when it came to these letters. Oksana could not imagine him extolling the beauties of snowdrops and cherry blossom out loud. Still, he was right, spring would be beautiful. Oksana yearned for it.

A heart-heavy sigh escaped her as she folded the letter back into its torn envelope. She would think over Konstantin's words before replying to her 'doting uncle'. She needed to think about the best way to bury her update into her words and ask for the kind of assistance that only Konstantin and what remained of the Astankovas could provide. It had to be done delicately.

Now though, it felt like it must be nearing dinnertime, which meant she better find herself a fresh, un-bloodied sweatshirt to wear to the canteen, lest she wants to face another trip to the medic today. Oksana pulled herself into a sitting position and gently retracted the hand that was still tightly pressing her bunched up t-shirt to her wound. It didn't look good, but the bleeding had slowed to a sticky stop. She spied her discarded bandage on the floor of her cell. It would just have to do. Tomorrow she would be getting a new one anyway. She could certainly make it through dinner with a grubby bandage, she would take it off when she returned to her cell for the night.

Oksana felt lighter than she had earlier, and not just because of the mild blood loss. It was rare to have something new to think about in her situation. Unusual for a new character to arrive in her narrative. Discounting any new inmates, of course. They all fitted into the same categories one way or another. New and scared. New and angry. That was about it really. But this evening, Oksana had plans to make. She needed to write her letter to Konstantin, and she needed to plan her strategy with Dr Polastri.

When Oksana had stormed from the consultation room earlier, sick of staring at that tacky plastic plant, she would never had said she would be looking forward to her next appointment. Nevertheless, she found that she actually was. A nice weekly duelling match against someone with intelligence worthy of her own… that would be nice. Oksana had written the doctor off too quickly and now her words came back to her for a second time. Everybody makes mistakes. Including, apparently, Oksana Astankova.