Wounded Hearts
Artyom pushed open the heavy door of the apartment building with a force that let in a gust of freezing dusk. He didn’t burst into the flat as usual — with loud stomping, laughter, and the joyful shouts that usually filled their small home. Instead, there was only the quiet click of the lock and the soft shuffle of his boots on the mat.
Veronika, standing by the stove where potatoes were sizzling golden on the pan, suddenly felt uneasy. She froze with a ladle in her hand, listening to the oppressive silence. There was no sound of boots hitting the floor, no rustle of his puffy jacket, no cheerful noise — not even the heavy breathing of a boy just in from the cold.
“Artyom, is that you?” she called out in a sing-song voice, trying to hide the tremor of anxiety that suddenly took hold. “I made your favorite herring under a fur coat! Potatoes are almost done! Come on, take off your coat!”
Silence. A thick, grave silence that rang in her ears.
“Artyom?” Her voice trembled.
Her heart sank with a sharp ache of foreboding. She quickly grabbed a towel to wipe her suddenly clammy hands and hurried to the hallway.
The moment she saw him, cold dread washed over her. He was standing in the middle of the small entryway, motionless — like a statue frozen to the floor. He hadn’t even taken off his coat, from which melted snow dripped, forming a dark puddle on the tiles. His shoulders were slumped, his head drawn into them, and his gaze — fixed on the parquet — was empty, unseeing.
“Sweetheart? What happened?” Veronika rushed toward him, clutching his cold sleeves and turning him toward her. “Artyom! Tell me right now! Did you fight with someone? Did someone hurt you? Did they steal something?”
The boy slowly, with visible effort, lifted his eyes to hers. And Veronika’s heart turned to ice. In those big, usually clear and lively eyes, she saw mute, boundless pain — a raw, animal terror and helplessness so deep it stole her breath away. He looked at her like a wounded animal seeking protection, yet unable to explain the enormity of his suffering.
“Mom… Mommy…” His voice cracked to a hoarse whisper. His face crumpled, his lips quivered, barely holding back the tears swelling in his eyes. “There’s… there’s a dog…”
“What dog? What are you talking about?” Veronika’s panic grew.
“In the pit… that garbage pit under the house. She’s hurt. I wanted to help, but she growled… She can’t get up, Mom, not at all! And it’s freezing outside… and people are throwing trash on her!” The last words burst out of him in one breath, followed by tears — hot, bitter, far too grown-up.
For a brief moment, Veronika felt relief — thank God, he was safe. But the feeling faded instantly, replaced by a wave of maternal worry for his shaken little soul.
“Where is she? Near our building?” she asked, already trying to think practically.
“No, on Orekhovaya Street, on the way to school. Let’s go! Please, right now! She’s in pain! She’ll freeze!” His voice rang with desperate pleading that tore at her heart.
“Did you ask any adults for help?” she tried to find a reasonable way out.
“I did…” His eyes dulled again; he lowered his head. “They told me to go home. Said, ‘It’s not your problem,’ ‘She’ll get out on her own,’ ‘Stop bothering us.’ No one wanted to…”
Veronika sighed, looking at his tear-streaked, tormented face. It was already dark, bitterly cold, and far away.
“Listen, Artyom. It’s late, freezing. Take off your coat. Maybe she was just resting. Maybe she’s already gone.”
“No!” he burst out, shaking his head so violently that tears flew off his cheeks. “She can’t! I saw! She looked at me… with those eyes… Mom, she’s going to die!”
“It might’ve seemed that way in the dark. Tell you what — you’ll calm down, have dinner, get some sleep. Tomorrow morning, you’ll check again. If she’s still there, I’ll call whoever needs to be called — emergency services, the police, anyone. Promise. Now go wash up — your hands are ice.”
Artyom obeyed, but reluctantly, as if against his conscience. His fingers trembled as he struggled with the zipper of his coat.
“Mom… what if she doesn’t make it till morning?” he whispered so softly it hurt her physically.
“My love, she’s a dog. They’re strong — especially strays. She’ll be fine for one night,” she said firmly, though she didn’t believe it herself. She just wanted to calm him.
He went to the bathroom and ran his frozen hands under steaming water, closing his eyes. The image came back at once — that dark, reeking pit under the house, and two eyes glowing from the blackness when he shone his phone light down. At first he thought it was a cat. He and Sasha, his friend, leaned closer — no, a dog. Medium-sized, mixed breed, with dirty reddish fur on her muzzle and chest.
“Hold my legs — I’ll try to reach her!” Artyom had shouted. Lying flat on the icy concrete, he reached toward the darkness.
A low, rasping growl came from below. It was so fierce and full of pain that Artyom recoiled in terror.
“Forget it, let’s go! She’ll manage,” Sasha said carelessly.
But Artyom couldn’t leave. He leaned down again.
“Doggie… good girl… come here, I’ll help you… hey, come on…” he whispered, trying to sound gentle despite the shivers of fear.
Another growl — weaker now, but still warning. He switched on his phone’s flashlight and froze. The beam revealed a terrible sight: the dog’s side was covered in small crusted wounds, and her hind leg… twisted unnaturally, a gaping, bloody mess. Around her — scraps of garbage and rags. How could anyone abandon her like that?
He spent the next half hour on the street, flagging down passersby, almost in tears, begging for help. He asked young men, older men, even pensioners — all brushed him off. Some laughed, some told him not to be stupid. Even Sasha eventually left, muttering about dinner. Artyom was left alone in the darkening cold, staring into that black hole — and into those eyes full of agony and hopelessness.
As he washed his hands, tears streamed down his face, mingling with the water. He couldn’t shake that look — pleading, dying, unforgettable. He felt sick, crushed by his own helplessness and the cruelty of the world.
At dawn he jumped out of bed and rushed to dress. Veronika, already ready for work, met him at the door.
“Well, go check on your sufferer,” she said with a tired smile — but one look at his tense face wiped it away. “I’m sure she’s gone by now. You need rest, sweetheart…”
He said nothing, just ran out. In the stairwell, his eyes flicked to the corner under the steps — a year ago, he’d found a box of frozen kittens there. He and his mom had nursed them back to life and found them homes. Their own two cats and dog were all rescues. He simply couldn’t walk past suffering. His heart was made that way — wounded by compassion.
He sprinted to the pit, breath clouding the icy air. Maybe she was gone. Please, let her be gone.
But she wasn’t. Two dull eyes gleamed again from the darkness. His heart sank. She had survived the night somehow — but how much longer?
He called his mother, choking back tears.
“She’s still there! Mom, she’s still there! I’ll send you a video! We can’t just leave her! We have to do something!”
Veronika’s first thought was emergency services. She reassured her son, told him to go to school, and called the MChS. But they politely refused — “We don’t handle animals.” The city utilities were no better.
Artyom called her every recess, his voice more desperate each time: “Did they come? Is anyone going?”
By noon, worn to the edge, Veronika called her friend Natalia, who suggested contacting animal shelters. The first one — Ray of Hope — listened and sent a rescue team immediately.
By then, Artyom had run away from his last class. He sat crouched by the dark hole, whispering comfort to the creature below, afraid she might already be gone.
When a van pulled up, he leapt to his feet.
“They’re here!” he shouted, voice cracking with relief.
A young woman jumped out, all business. Without hesitation, she climbed down into the pit, shielded by a thick blanket. A faint, broken whine rose from below. Pulling the dog out was hard — she had frozen to the metal with her own bodily fluids. Artyom watched, fists clenched, heart aching.
“There, poor thing… it’s over now,” murmured the rescuer, laying the dog gently on the snow. “Skin and bones… how did you even survive?”
The dog didn’t resist. She just whimpered weakly, sunk in her pain. Artyom hovered near, worried and hopeful all at once.
“Look — that’s your savior,” the girl said, nodding toward him. “A real hero. Without him, you’d still be down there.”
“I’m not a hero,” he muttered, embarrassed. “Just… a person. What will happen to her now? She can’t walk…”
“Looks like she was mauled by other dogs. We’ll take her to the clinic. She’ll be fine.”
They called her Jack. Healing was slow — the leg was badly damaged, the body frostbitten. When she finally recovered enough, the shelter transferred her to temporary foster care — at Artyom’s home.
Veronika hesitated — life was already hard for the two of them and their pets. But she couldn’t say no, not when she saw her boy’s glowing, hopeful face.
A local newspaper later wrote about Artyom’s rescue. When the journalist came, the boy didn’t see himself as any kind of hero.
“I think that’s just normal behavior for anyone with a conscience,” he said, looking down shyly. “There’s nothing heroic about it. It just makes me sad that people are so indifferent now, that a small act of kindness looks extraordinary. I did what anyone should do.”
“What would you like to change in the world?” the journalist asked.
“I want people to be kinder. Just kinder.”
“And what do you want to be when you grow up?”
“A dog trainer. I want to work with dogs. And I’ll be a volunteer too. They say I’m too young, but I’ll still help — animals, people, old folks… I feel bad for them, for lonely old people. I want to be their helper and friend.”
“And how’s Jack doing now?”
“Great!” For the first time, Artyom’s face lit up with a truly radiant smile. “We kept her! She’s my dog now! Jack! Come here, girl! Show what you’ve learned!”
A shaggy, cheerful dog bounded over from her bed.
“Sit! Down! Paw! Good girl! The best dog in the world!”
Artyom — a boy with a wounded heart.
Because only a wounded heart can truly feel the world’s pain.
As long as there is cruelty and indifference, as long as someone could help but doesn’t — hearts like Artyom’s will keep bleeding compassion.
And I hope there will be more people with such wounded hearts — people who walk through life feeling another’s pain as their own. The day that happens, kindness will reign on Earth.
And then we’ll all finally know happiness, love, and belonging.
Until then… I hold you all, my dear unknown kindred souls, in a gentle, invisible embrace — and love you endlessly.
