«I need surgery…» my voice trembles, like a thin thread ready to snap. «The doctors say that if I don’t, my legs might completely fail me…»
My sister’s laughter, cold and prickly like an icy wind, cuts through the air:
«You’re almost a cripple already, what’s the difference?» There’s malice in her words. «You should have given up the cottage, instead of clinging to it like it’s your last hope.»
I press the phone to my ear so hard that the pain becomes a release, an attempt to escape reality. Inside, everything tightens into a small, icy lump. They are all waiting—the entire family, all these ‘close’ ones. Waiting for me to disappear so they can pick apart the last thing I have. The cottage… The only thing left from my parents, the last shard of a life when everything was different.
My throat tightens, but I force myself to speak firmly:
«You know, Vera, I won’t give it up.»
«Well then, perish in your hole!» Her voice breaks into a shriek, and the line goes dead with a series of beeps.
The phone slips from my weakened fingers, falling with a dull thud onto the worn tablecloth. In the silence, this sound seems deafening. My room—thirteen square meters of solitude—presses down on my shoulders with the full weight of hopelessness. The faded wallpaper with pale blue flowers, which I pasted up twenty years ago, peels from the walls in places, revealing gray concrete, like old wounds that will never heal.
Gray, my only true friend, stretches on the windowsill. His fur glistens silver in the dim light of an autumn day. He looks at me with his intelligent amber eyes, and in them, I see more understanding than in the glances of all people combined. He has a bowl of food—I always find money for cat food, even if I have to starve myself.
Mechanically, I open my worn wallet, although I know it’s empty. My fingers slide over the cold lining, finding not a single bill. The last of my money went on medicine three days ago.
My gaze falls on the wall calendar—the only bright spot in the room. Red crosses mark the days until the next pension. Two more weeks. How can I survive these two weeks?
Almost automatically, I dial a familiar number. My fingers remember the sequence better than I do.
«Uncle Kolya, it’s me…» my voice betrays a tremble.
«What, out of food again?» His voice mixes fatigue with sympathy. He doesn’t judge, and that makes it even more painful.
«Got any leftovers?» I force out, swallowing shame along with tears.
«Come by in the evening.»
I nod, though he can’t see it.
«Thank you…»
As soon as I hang up, a wave of pain washes over me. My entire body aches as if a truck ran over me. My back burns with fire—a consequence of that fall that split my life into ‘before’ and ‘after’.
«Lena, you’re so beautiful today!» his voice sounds in my memory as clearly as if it were yesterday, not twenty years ago. «Shall we dance?»
I close my eyes, and memories wash over me in a wave, bright and painful, like fresh cuts. That night at the club «Metelitsa»—the music thunders, colored lights glide across faces, and I, a twenty-year-old fool in a new red dress bought with my first paycheck, smile at a handsome guy with hair as black as a raven’s wing.
It all started so… perfectly. He seemed like a dream come true—tall, fit, with a smile that could melt ice, and brown eyes that, I thought then, shone with sincerity. He worked as a manager at a car dealership, earned a decent living. He took me to fancy restaurants, gave me bouquets of roses, showered me with compliments. Even my mother, always skeptical of my suitors, approved of him. «A reliable guy,» she said, «you won’t be lost with him.»
You won’t be lost… I bitterly smile, stroking Gray’s back. The cat purrs, and this simple, cozy sound helps keep the lump in my throat at bay.
Three months. Three months I lived in some kind of fairy tale world. Young, in love, confident that happiness was forever. I worked at a travel agency, sold tickets to exotic countries, and dreamed of how Igor and I would go on a honeymoon. Maybe to Bali? Or Rome?
But then there was that evening. We celebrated his promotion at his apartment on the fifth floor. Champagne, music, laughter. I felt like a queen, surrounded by glitter and warmth. I remember every detail: the white walls, minimalist furniture, huge TV on the wall, and the balcony that offered a view of the night city.
«Shall we go out for some air?» he suggested, opening the door to the balcony. A cool May breeze burst into the room, playing with the light curtains.
I stepped out, pressing against him, seeking warmth. The city below sparkled like a scatter of diamonds on black velvet. I dreamed aloud—about our future, about a home, about children…
«You know,» his voice suddenly turned sharp, like a blade, «you’re really nothing special. Just ordinary. Gray.»
I turned around, not understanding whether he was joking or not. His face contorted into a grimace, something between contempt and anger:
«Thought I fell in love with you? With someone like…,» he waved his hand as if swatting an annoying fly.
«Igor, what are you…» I tried to step back, but there was only the cold iron railing of the balcony behind me.
«Bet you can’t even fly?» Madness flickered in his eyes. «Let’s check?»
His hands grabbed my shoulders. One push—and the world turned upside down. Wind whistled in my ears, city lights flashed like in a kaleidoscope, and somewhere on the edge of consciousness, I understood: I was falling.
They say that your whole life flashes before your eyes at such moments. Not true. I only saw the asphalt, rushing up to meet me, and thought only of one thing: «Mom, forgive me…»
Impact. Crunch. Darkness.
I woke up in the hospital. The white ceiling floated before my eyes, and my body… it felt like it wasn’t there. Only pain—everywhere, in every cell.
«You’re lucky,» said the doctor, a man with tired eyes and gray temples. «Your spine is damaged, but there’s a chance you might walk again. If you fight for it.»
And I fought. Every day, every minute. I relearned to feel my legs, to take the first steps, to endure the pain. Mom was there—holding my hand, wiping away tears, whispering, «You’ll make it, daughter, you’re strong.»
Igor was tried. Five years—a laughable sentence for a broken life. He didn’t even admit guilt—insisted that it was all me, that I was drunk, that I decided to end it all. And there was no evidence—just my word against his.
I look at my reflection in the window glass. It’s darkened, and in the dim light of the desk lamp, I see a woman with a tired face and gray strands in her hair. Where’s that girl in the red dress? The one who believed in love and dreamed of Rome? She stayed there, on that balcony, on that May evening that marked the beginning of the end.
And again, memories wash over me like a storm, knocking me off my feet.
«You’re so beautiful when you cry,» whispers Andrei, wiping blood from my split lip. Something smolders in his eyes, like coals ready to flare up at any moment…
Gray anxiously meows, rubbing against my legs. He always feels when I’m unwell. When the past returns, like a nightmare from which there’s no hiding within these four walls of this tiny room.
After Igor, I thought I could never trust a man again. For five years, I lived alone, licking my wounds, relearning to walk and believe in myself. Then he appeared—Andrei, a neighbor in the building, a widower with a soft gaze and a smile that seemed to promise peace.
He brought groceries when I couldn’t leave the house because of back pain. Helped with small tasks—fixed a faucet, nailed a shelf. Told funny stories about his work at the auto service. His hands smelled of motor oil and cigarettes, and that scent seemed so… reliable.
«You shouldn’t be alone,» he said, brewing me tea with lemon when I caught a cold. «A woman like you deserves happiness.»
I believed. Believed in the fairy tale again. Mom, bless her memory, warned me: «Darling, there’s something not right about him, something predatory in his eyes.» But I didn’t listen. Didn’t want to listen.
The first hit came on the anniversary of our meeting. I had prepared a festive dinner—his favorite dishes, even baked a cake. He came home drunk, reeking of booze and other women’s perfume.
«What is this crap?» he jabbed his fork into the cake, smearing the cream. «Didn’t you know I’m on a diet?»
«But you love…» I started, and then his hand struck my cheek.
Ringing in my ears, the taste of blood in my mouth, and his voice, strangely tender:
«You’re so beautiful when you cry.»
I should have left then. But where? My apartment had already been sold—»for our future together,» as he put it. We lived in his two-bedroom, and all the documents were in his name.
Then hell began. Every day—a new reason for beatings. Either the soup was too salty, or the shirt was poorly ironed, or I looked at a passerby the wrong way. He beat me calculatingly, trying not to leave visible marks. Then he would cry, beg for forgiveness, swear it would never happen again…
I learned to hide the bruises under long sleeves. Learned to smile at neighbors and say everything was fine. Learned to cry silently at night, burying my face in the pillow.
Then there was that day. A normal Tuesday, nothing special. I was ironing his shirts, and he was watching football. His favorite team lost.
«It’s all your fault!» he yelled, jumping off the couch. «Your presence brings misfortune!»
I didn’t even have time to step back. The hot iron ran over my shoulder, burning the skin to the flesh. Then… then there was only pain and a scream that seemed to shake the walls.
I woke up in the ICU. Above my head—again, a white hospital ceiling, so familiar. The sound of an IV ticking seconds of my new life.
«We had to remove a piece of your skull,» said the doctor, a woman with tired eyes. «Now there’s a plate there. Take care of yourself.»
Take care of myself… I look at my reflection in the window glass, running my hand over the scar on my temple, hidden under my hair. A plate in my head—another reminder of how easily one person can break another.
Gray jumps onto my lap, purring his cat song. In his eyes—a whole universe of love and support. He appeared in my life the day I ran away from Andrei—a small gray lump on the threshold of this rental room, as lonely and lost as I was.
Now we’re together. Two broken beings who found salvation in each other. And although my room is small, although the wallpaper peels and the ceiling leaks during the rain—here I am safe. Here, no one will hurt me.
I carefully get up, overcoming the pain in my back. I need to get ready—Uncle Kolya is waiting for me at the store. Maybe today I’ll be lucky, and among the expired products, I’ll find something tasty for Gray.
And the pain… The pain will pass. It always does. Leaving behind only scars—on the body and in the soul. But scars are a map of survival. Proof that I am stronger than I seem.
«Just don’t tell anyone,» Uncle Kolya whispers, handing me a bag of groceries. In the dim light of the service entrance, his gray mustache seems silver. «It’s not allowed for us to give away expired food. They’ll fire us if they find out.»
I nod, pressing the bag to my chest. It’s warm—that means there’s fresh pastry inside. My heart squeezes with gratitude and shame at the same time. Once, I myself threw away expired yogurts, wrinkling my nose in disgust. And now…
«Thank you,» my voice trembles.
«Better tell me, how’s your back? What do the doctors say?»
I look away. A car drives by, its headlights momentarily illuminating the alley, highlighting trash cans, peeling walls, cracked asphalt. This is the city’s underbelly—here live those who are not supposed to be noticed.
«I need surgery,» the words come with difficulty. «Otherwise… otherwise, I won’t be able to walk at all.»
Uncle Kolya frowns, fiddling with a button on his worn uniform jacket:
«How much does it cost?»
«Three hundred thousand,» I say the amount like a sentence. For me, it might as well be three million—just as unreachable stars.
He whistles, shaking his head, and in his eyes, I read concern:
«Mm-hm… And the family? Your sister?»
A bitter chuckle escapes on its own, like a spark flicked from the lips:
«The family is waiting for me to die so they can take the cottage. Vera said it outright…»
It’s cold in the alley. The November wind penetrates under the old coat, chilling to the bones. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks, glass tinkles, cars hum on the avenue. Ordinary sounds of the night city, but now they seem especially lonely.
«Let’s go,» Uncle Kolya suddenly takes me by the elbow. «We’ll have some tea. You must be freezing.»
The store’s back room is small and cluttered, but it’s warm. An old electric kettle hums in the corner, on the table—a half-opened pack of cookies and two chipped cups. It smells of cardboard, dust, and, oddly enough, cinnamon.
«I was thinking,» he pours the tea, and steam rises to the ceiling where a lonely light bulb casts a yellowish light. «I have some savings…»
«No,» I almost shout, spilling the tea. «No, Uncle Kolya, don’t.»
He already saved me once—three years ago, when I ran away from Andrei. Helped find this room, negotiated an installment plan with the landlady. Every evening, he brings products written off at the store. It’s already too much.
«But listen…»
«No,» I stand up, wincing from the pain in my back. «You already… you already are the only one who helps. I can’t…»
He sighs, and in that sigh, so much unspoken care that tears well up in my eyes.
I take the long way home. It’s longer, but safer—at this time, there are many drunks on the main street, and I know all too well what an encounter with them could mean for a lame woman.
Gray meets me at the door. His amber eyes glow in the dark like two little lanterns. He purrs, rubbing against my legs, helping me forget about the pain and fatigue.
I turn on the light, and my room is illuminated by the dim yellowish light of an old bulb. Thirteen square meters—my entire world. A narrow bed against the wall, covered with an old floral bedspread. A wardrobe with a crooked door, a small table, two chairs. On the windowsill—a geranium, the only bright spot in this realm of gray.
I take the groceries out of the bag. Yogurts, expired two days ago. Bread, a bit stale, but still edible. A pack of pasta with a torn package. And—miracle!—a fresh croissant. It’s still warm, smelling of butter and vanilla.
Gray meows impatiently—he also smells the food.
I eat the croissant in small bites, savoring every gram. It’s been a long time since I had such tasty food. Outside, it starts to rain, drops drumming on the tin windowsill, creating a whimsical melody.
Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door—three sharp bangs. My heart jumps to my throat. Who could it be at this hour?
«Lena, open up!» Vera’s voice, angry and demanding. «I know you’re home!»
I freeze, not breathing. Gray arches his back, his fur bristling.
«Open up, you scum!» Another bang on the door. «Think you can hide forever?!»
I’m silent. Just clutch the uneaten croissant tighter. Crumbs fall to the floor, but I don’t notice.
«You’ll die here anyway!» she yells. «And the cottage will be mine! Hear me?! Mine!»
Her footsteps gradually fade down the stairs. And I sit, unable to move. A lump in my throat, hands trembling.
Gray jumps onto my lap, rubbing his head against my chin. His purring is like a medicine for fear and loneliness.
I pet him, feeling how the tension gradually eases. We’ll manage. We always have. And the cottage… The cottage will remain mine. It’s the last thing that connects me to the past, to my parents, to the life when I was whole and happy.
«If you don’t have surgery within the next six months, the consequences could be irreversible,» the doctor’s voice sounds like a sentence. He looks at me over his glasses with genuine sympathy. «I understand the amount is significant, but your health…»
«I’ll find the money,» I interrupt him, not believing my own words. «I will find it.»
I leave the hospital on unbending legs. November air burns my lungs with cold, and one thought pulsates in my head: «Six months. I have only six months.»
A gust of wind throws a handful of prickly snow in my face. The first snow of the year—harsh, angry, somehow desperate. Like my life. I slowly descend the hospital steps, holding onto the railing. Each step reverberates with pain in my spine, each movement—like a little torture.
Near the stop—a newspaper kiosk. On the front page of the local newspaper, a large headline: «First heart transplant at city hospital.» I look at the photo of a happy family hugging an elderly man on a hospital bed. They raised money online. Through some website for fundraising…
Something clicks in my head. The thought is so simple that I freeze right on the sidewalk. Passersby grudgingly walk around me, some cast irritated glances, but I don’t notice them. A clear plan forms in my mind.
In the evening, I sit in front of the old laptop my mother once gave me. It barely works, the screen flickers, but it’s still alive. Gray settles next to me, resting his head on my lap, his purring giving me strength.
«My name is Elena. I need your help…» my fingers hover over the keyboard. How to tell my story? How to describe twenty years of pain and struggle? How not to seem like another scammer who wants to profit from other people’s kindness?
«I’m not asking for pity,» I write. «I’m asking for a chance. A chance to be myself again, a chance to live without pain…»
I tell everything. About the fall from the balcony, the betrayal of a loved one, the iron, and the plate in my head. About the small room where I hide from the world. About Uncle Kolya and his expired products. About the sister who waits for my death.
«Three hundred thousand rubles,» I write. «For some, it’s the amount for a new phone or a vacation. For me—it’s the chance to walk again without pain…»
The clock shows three in the morning when I finally press «Publish.» Gray has long been asleep, curled up on a pillow. The room is cold—the radiators are barely warm, and outside, snow falls, covering the city with a white blanket.
My phone vibrates—a message arrives. The first response to my story.
«Hang in there, Elena. I transferred a bit of money. It’s not much, just a thousand rubles, but I hope it helps…»
Tears run down my cheeks. A thousand rubles. The first step to a new life. The first ray of hope in endless darkness.
In the morning, a few more transfers come in. Small ones, a hundred or two hundred rubles, but each is like a little miracle. People write words of support, share their stories, offer help.
By noon, Uncle Kolya calls.
«Saw your page,» he says. «Good for you for deciding. I talked to the guys at the store… We collected a bit. I know it’s a drop in the ocean, but still…»
I can’t speak for tears. Just nod, though he can’t see it.
In the evening, Vera comes. I hear her steps on the stairs and brace myself internally, ready for new threats. But she doesn’t yell. Just stands at the door, aged, somewhat lost.
«I read it,» she says quietly. «I didn’t know… about the iron, about all this… Forgive me, sister.»
I look at her through the peephole. In her hands—a envelope.
«It’s grandma’s jewelry,» she places the envelope under the door. «Sell it. And… forgive me. Really, forgive me.»
I don’t open the door. Can’t. Too much pain, too much betrayal. But I take the envelope.
At night, I sit again by the window. Gray sleeps on the windowsill, snow falls outside, and on the laptop screen, the amount of donations grows. Slowly, penny by penny, but it grows.
«Thank you,» I write in an update on the fundraising page. «Thank you for believing. Thank you for giving hope…»
Outside, a new day begins. I don’t know what it will bring. Don’t know if I’ll raise the needed amount. Don’t know if I can walk again without pain.
But I know one thing: I’m no longer alone in this fight. And as long as there are people willing to reach out to a stranger, there’s a reason to live. There’s a reason to fight.
And I will fight. For every step. For every breath. For the right to be happy.
Because sometimes life isn’t just about survival. Sometimes it’s about victory
