The door slammed with such a crash that my mother’s favorite porcelain elephant figurine fell off the hall’s mirror shelf. I didn’t even turn around — just gritted my teeth and grabbed the bag my mother clung to as if it were the last thread tying me to this house.
“You’re not going anywhere!” Her voice, piercing like a siren, stabbed into my back. “You have nowhere to live! To the station, maybe? With what? Your pride?”
I yanked the handle sharply, the fabric cracked, but the bag stayed with me. Inside — everything I managed to grab in ten minutes amid her screams: documents, laptop, a couple of T-shirts, a phone with a cracked screen (thanks, Kristina, for the “accidental” shove yesterday).
“I’m not going to sit here and watch you all celebrate my betrayal.”
Mother froze, her face twisted — not with remorse, no. With rage that I dared to say aloud what everyone was silent about.
A memory: the wedding that won’t be.
Three months ago, Artyom and I were in a showroom choosing wallpaper for our future apartment.
“Maybe these?” he poked at a sample I absolutely hated.
“Are you serious? That’s the color of dried blood.”
He laughed, hugged me by the shoulders:
“Well, fine. Let it be what you say.”
I thought then, “How compliant he is!”
I was wrong.
He wasn’t compliant. He was indifferent.
Because this apartment, this renovation, this wedding — it was all for me. And for him… For him, all this time there was Kristina. My younger sister. Who now sobbed behind the wall, playing the innocent victim. The reason I’m leaving.
“Do you even realize what you’ve done?” Mother hissed, blocking the door. “She’s three months pregnant! If something happens because of the stress…”
“What if something happens to me?” I clenched my fists.
“To you?” she snorted. “You’re made of iron.”
Yes. Iron. Because if I were normal, I would have already broken down when I found out that:
Artyom has been sleeping with Kristina for six months.
She is pregnant.
Everyone knew.
They kept quiet.
Especially touching was that they “didn’t want to upset me.”
“Where’s my money?” I suddenly asked, looking mother in the eyes.
She blinked.
“What money?”
“The money that was in my drawer. You know what I mean.”
Her gaze flicked away.
“You spent it yourself and forgot.”
Of course. Very convenient.
I turned and went into the hallway. There was already a whole council: father (silent as a partisan on a mission), aunt Lida (hands on hips, face like I stole her last pension), and… yes, of course, Kristina.
She sniffled, clutching her belly.
“Are you happy?” aunt hissed. “You ruined your sister! What if something happens to the baby?”
I slowly turned to Kristina.
“What if something happens to mine?”
Silence.
“…What baby of yours?” aunt went pale.
“This one.” I smiled coldly. “By the way, Artyom was sleeping with me all this time too. No protection. So if anything… you’ll have two grandchildren. You can save on the christening.”
Mother jumped up, clutching her heart.
“You’re lying!”
“Check.”
I turned and left.
Behind me — screams, noise, father’s voice:
“Leave her… Let her cool down.”
He was the only one who didn’t lecture. Because he knew — I won’t come back.
The elevator moved slowly. I gripped the bag.
Where am I going?
For now — just far away.
The elevator crawled torturously slow. I pressed my forehead to the cold metal wall, trying not to burst into tears here, in front of neighbors who surely already heard our whole “family drama.”
Rain lashed outside. I walked without looking where, phone clutched in hand. Only one thought spun in my head:
Where?
The station? I didn’t even have a ticket. To friends? After half of them apparently knew about Artyom and Kristina — no way.
Finally, Google gave me the address of a cheap hotel in an industrial area. An hour on the metro, two transfers under the downpour — and here I was in a room smelling of dampness and cheap air freshener.
I collapsed onto the hard bed without even taking off the wet sweater. My phone exploded with notifications:
Mom (12 missed calls) — “Come back, we need to talk! You misunderstood everything!”
Kristina (3 voice messages) — sobbing, something about “we didn’t want to hurt you.”
Artyom (1 message) — dry: “Where are the apartment keys?”
I silenced it.
Then suddenly realized: I no longer had a home.
The apartment we were “preparing together” for the wedding — was now their den. My room at my parents’ — the place where I was betrayed. Even my stash money disappeared (thanks, Mom).
I closed my eyes. Fragments of phrases floated up:
“She’s your sister!”
“You have to understand…”
“Artyom just got confused!”
Nonsense.
The phone rang in the middle of the night. I jumped — the screen showed “Grandma Vera.”
“Lerka, are you alive?” Her hoarse voice sounded sharp, no preamble.
I didn’t answer. Just gripped the receiver and sobbed.
“Okay, quiet, it’s clear,” Grandma snorted. “I only learned about this Kamasutra from your Aunt Lida yesterday. If I’d known earlier — I would have broken all their legs.”
I snorted through tears.
“Where are you?”
“At the hotel.”
“Got money?”
“A little left…”
Noise sounded, like she was searching for something.
“Listen up. I have a plot outside the city. A little house — a skinny hut, but it has a roof. Water from a well, electricity — generator. Didn’t tell anyone about it, not even your mother.”
I sat on the bed.
“Why do you need it?”
“Grandpa built it — for fishing. Then he died, and the plot stayed. I’m giving it to you. Want to sell — sell, want to live — live. Just watch out…”
Her voice lowered.
“Your mother and Kristina are already dividing your share in the ‘family’ apartment. Artyom, the bastard, is re-registering the mortgage documents. If you don’t grab onto something now — they’ll eat you alive.”
I clenched the phone.
“Come to me tomorrow. We’ll do the deed.”
I lay down staring at the ceiling.
Somewhere there, in “our” apartment, Artyom was probably already hugging Kristina, discussing what furniture to buy instead of the one I ruined.
And I…
I was looking at the crack in the ceiling of the hotel room and smiled for the first time in a day.
I have a plan now.
The key still fit the lock.
I froze at the threshold of “our” apartment, listening to the silence. No one. Artyom probably spent the night at Kristina’s, confident that I would burn with shame somewhere in a back alley.
He was wrong.
The hallway smelled of fresh paint — they were already covering up my “artwork” on the walls. New laminate lay on the floor, still unpacked. They hurried to set up their love nest.
I put the bag on the floor and took out:
A hammer (snatched from my father’s garage).
A can of paint (black, matte, perfect for “graffiti”).
Scissors (big, sharp).
First to suffer was the hallway mirror — the very one where Artyom and I once laughed trying on wedding accessories.
A strike.
The glass shattered into stars.
Another strike.
Only small shards remained.
“That’s better,” I whispered.
I moved on:
Kitchen. Cut up the new tablecloth with scissors (I chose it, but now she will sit there).
Living room. Poured paint on the sofa (beige, “like everyone else’s” — hated it from day one).
Bedroom. Slashed the sheets (silk, a gift from Mom “for the first wedding night”).
But most of all — the bathroom.
There hung a heart-shaped towel holder — Kristina’s gift (“so you always have love!”).
I tore it off the wall and nailed it to the floor.
“For luck.”
The final touch — writing on the wall in black paint:
“Happy steaming”
I looked around.
The apartment was no longer “perfect.” Now it was real — with cracks, chips, traces of rage.
Just like me.
I left without looking back.
The phone vibrated — Grandma:
“The deed is ready. The hut’s keys are waiting. Have you decided what to do with it?”
I smiled and typed back:
“I’m staying.”
Morning in the hut.
The first thing I felt was cold.
Grandma wasn’t lying: the little house had no heating. I wrapped myself in a blanket taken from “that” apartment and approached the tiny window. Outside — forest, fog, silence. No mothers, sisters, Artyoms.
The phone exploded again:
Mom (25 missed calls) — “You’ve gone crazy! Who raised you like this?!”
Kristina (voice messages with sobbing) — “How could you ruin our home?!”
Artyom (1 message) — “You’re a psychopath. I’m suing for property damage.”
I turned off the phone.
On the creaky table lay:
The deed for the plot (officially mine).
An envelope with money (Grandma signed it: “For the first chainsaw”).
A note: “Lerka, if you decide to stay — the well is in the yard, firewood under the shed. You won’t die. And if you change your mind — sell and get as far away as you want. Your choice.”
I took an axe and went outside.
The firewood needed chopping. I had never done it before.
First strike — the axe stuck in the log. Second — bounced off, almost hitting my leg. By the third strike, my hands trembled, my back was sweaty. But I did it.
I laughed. For the first time in a month — genuinely.
That evening they came.
Mother got out of the car in a fur coat (it was +5 in the forest), Kristina — pale, with clearly drawn bruises under her eyes. Artyom stayed in the car — apparently afraid I’d finish him off.
“You have to pay for the repair!” mother shouted. “We filed a police report!”
“What money?” I leaned on the axe. “You said I spent it myself.”
Kristina cried:
“How do you live here?! This is the end of the world!”
I looked around the hut, the forest, the smoke from the chimney.
“But it’s honest.”
Mother suddenly fell silent. Then sighed:
“Are you… really staying here?”
I turned and walked toward the house.
“Try to kick me out.”
At night I lit the fireplace (with difficulty, but I did it), wrapped myself in a blanket, and opened my laptop.
On the screen — an ad:
“Renting a hut in the forest. For tourists, bloggers, runaway brides. Price negotiable.”
I smiled and added:
“P.S. Axe included. Well. Silence. And no relatives.”
I sat on the porch, sipping scorching tea from a tin mug, when something loudly cracked in the tree branches.
“Well, bear, come to finish me off?” I shouted into the darkness, gripping the axe.
From the bushes came… a courier.
“Lera Sokolova? You have a package.”
I lowered the axe. Inside the box were:
A new phone (I drowned the old one in the well a week ago).
An envelope with money (three times more than I asked for a week’s rent).
A note: “Your blog about ‘life after all’ — brilliant. Want a contract with a media agency? P.S. The axe on camera is a great image.”
I laughed and glanced at the phone screen. 157 unread messages.
The first — from Mom: “You posted our drama on the entire internet?!”
The second — from Kristina: “You can take your Artyom back. He…”
I deleted everything without reading.
I dialed only one number.
“Gran,” I said when she answered. “I changed my mind about selling the plot.”
“Well, good,” Grandma hoarsely replied. “I already stocked up on popcorn. Waiting for your mother to reach you with screams about ‘family honor.’”
“Let her try,” I kicked the axe with my foot. “Now I have followers. And lawyers from the agency.”
The wind carried the smell of smoke from the chimney. Somewhere in the forest an owl hooted.
I was finally home.
