“Katya, sweetheart, wait—come on. We’re not strangers. At least let a mother speak when her heart is bleeding…”
That voice—sticky-sweet, like melon gone soft with rot—made Katya stop dead with the intercom fob in her hand. She’d been about to press the plastic disk to the panel when a hulking silhouette in an oversized wool coat with a fur collar—so thick it looked like it might strangle its owner—cut her off.
Larisa Gennadyevna emerged from the dim February courtyard as if she’d been lying in ambush, a predator waiting for prey to lower its head and drink. She carried the heavy stink of “older-lady” perfume mixed with fried onions—an odor Katya had despised so intensely during the three years she’d lived with Igor it could still make her nauseous.
“I don’t have time for this, Larisa Gennadyevna,” Katya said flatly, trying to step around her. “I’m coming from work, I’m exhausted, and I’m not standing here in the wind discussing your tragic ‘bleeding heart.’”
But the former mother-in-law—though “mother-in-law” was a stretch, since there’d never been a wedding stamp in Katya’s passport—wasn’t planning to give up. With surprising agility for her size, she sidestepped and blocked the iron entrance door with her body.
Her face, heavily powdered, had flushed in blotches from the cold and agitation. Her little eyes flicked over Katya’s appearance: the new fur coat, the leather gloves, the steady, composed expression. It all clearly irritated Larisa Gennadyevna, but she clung to her “suffering mother” act.
“Look at her—so high and mighty now,” she moaned, grabbing Katya by the sleeve. “And my Igorek is falling apart! He’s in a terrible state, Katya. He won’t eat, he won’t sleep—he’s gone all dark and hollow. And that girl he foolishly brought home… she threw him out! Took what she could and tossed him out like trash, can you believe it? He’s like a beaten dog now, he doesn’t know where to go. You have to save him, Katya. He loves you—idiot that he is. A man stumbled, who hasn’t? But you’re a smart woman. You should understand: a man needs guiding, warmth, a home… someone to clean him up and feed him.”
Katya jerked her arm away in disgust, freeing the sleeve from those clingy fingers with their chipped manicure. She was always stunned by that saintly, unbreakable conviction some mothers carried—that the entire world was obliged to babysit their grown sons who couldn’t manage their own lives.
“Save him?” Katya echoed, her voice turning hard. “You’ve got the wrong number. Rescuers are 112. I’m not a charity—and I’m not interested.”
“Not interested in what?!” Larisa Gennadyevna raised her voice, and the honeyed tone began to crumble like old plaster. “In your own happiness? Igorek is a good-looking man, handy! So he had a little adventure—so what? It happens! It’s nature, Katya—male nature. But you’ve switched on your pride. As if you’re some priceless treasure!”
“Larisa Gennadyevna, why don’t you take your precious son and go wherever you like—far away from me? Why did you decide I’d live with him again after he brought some street girl into our bed?!”
“How dare you?! You—”
“Have you forgotten what I had to throw away afterward? The sheets? The mattress? Or do you think I have the memory of a goldfish?”
The words landed in the frosty air heavy and loud. The righteous-mother mask finally shattered. Larisa Gennadyevna went purple, her nostrils flaring, her mouth twisting into a hateful sneer.
“You filthy little wretch!” she shrieked so sharply that a man passing by with a dog hurried away. “A girl in the bed… If you were a normal woman, he wouldn’t even glance at anyone! You drove him to it! Cold as a fish! A barren nobody! You didn’t give him children, you didn’t cook borscht—only chased your career! You ruined his life, you snake, and now you act disgusted?!”
She pushed forward, looming over Katya, spitting as she shouted. This wasn’t pleading anymore—it was an attack. Larisa Gennadyevna was used to winning by brute force and volume, used to people retreating and apologizing just to make her stop.
“Move,” Katya warned quietly, tightening her grip on her bag handle.
“I’m not moving!” Larisa Gennadyevna screamed. “You’re coming with me right now and taking Igor back! He’s here—around the corner—in the car, freezing! You have to! You sucked everything out of him for three years, now pay him back! Otherwise I’ll make your life a nightmare—I’ll write to your job, I’ll tell everyone what you are—”
She didn’t finish. Apparently deciding words weren’t enough, she snapped her arm forward, reaching for Katya’s hair slipping out from under her hat—the quick, ugly motion of a market bully who settles arguments with grabbing and slapping.
But Katya had expected it. Living with Igor had taught her one thing: in that family, a tantrum turns into violence in a heartbeat. She shifted sharply to the left, letting the hand swipe through empty air, and drove all her fury—everything she’d swallowed and carried for months—into a single, brutal two-handed shove into Larisa Gennadyevna’s side.
“Katya, don’t pretend you suddenly can’t see me. We need to talk, and this time you’ll listen whether you want to or not.”
Larisa Gennadyevna again planted herself in front of the building door, her massive body wrapped in an old nutria fur coat that stank of damp and mothballs. She stood with legs spread in worn winter boots like a goalkeeper bracing for a penalty. The air outside was raw; a gray February evening pressed down like weight, and underfoot the pavement squelched with brown sludge—melted snow mixed with chemical grit.
Katya stopped, feeling irritation boil in her chest. The workday had been brutal, her head was pounding, and the last person she wanted to see was her ex’s mother—a woman who, over the past half year, had drained more life out of Katya than the tax office ever could.
“Let me pass,” Katya said, tired but firm, trying to slip around her. “There’s nothing to discuss. Everything was said a month ago, when your son carried his boxes out.”
“That’s not for you to decide—whether everything’s been said!” Larisa Gennadyevna stepped in sync with her, blocking the intercom again. Her face, reddened by cold and broken capillaries, twisted into an expression meant to look like suffering but closer to a toothache. “Igorek is falling apart. Do you understand, you heartless creature? For three weeks he’s not himself. He doesn’t eat. They kicked him out of work. He just sits staring at a wall.”
She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial hiss. Katya caught a blast of stale breath, mixed with the medicinal bite of heart drops.
“He loves you, you silly girl. He made a mistake—who doesn’t? The devil tempted him, he got tangled up. But you’re a woman—you’re supposed to be wiser. Who else will pull him out? I’m old, my blood pressure is terrible, I can’t carry him on my back. But you’ve got a big apartment, a good salary. Take him back, wash him, feed him. He’s whining for you like a beaten dog.”
Katya stared at her in disbelief. This wasn’t a mother trying to defend her son. This was a mother trying to dump a grown dependent back onto someone else because carrying him herself had become inconvenient.
“Larisa Gennadyevna,” Katya said, adjusting the strap of her heavy bag, “your Igorek isn’t whining. Your Igorek is drinking because he’s too lazy to look for work. And he doesn’t love me—he loves my refrigerator and the fact that I pay the mortgage alone.”
“How can you even say that?!” Larisa Gennadyevna squealed, the grieving mask slipping to reveal her usual nastiness. “He’s a talented boy! He just needs support! And you? You’re selfish! You threw him out into the cold over nothing! So he slept with someone—big deal! A man is a hunter—he needs variety! And you, I bet, lie there like a plank, so he went looking for warmth!”
That was the last drop. Katya remembered the night perfectly: she’d come home early from a work trip and found a girl with a lower-back tattoo in her bed, on her sheets—along with Igor, who hadn’t even bothered to hide the beer bottles under the bed.
“Larisa Gennadyevna, why don’t you take your precious son and disappear? Why did you decide I’d live with him again after he brought some street girl into our bed?”
Larisa Gennadyevna’s face darkened. Her eyes narrowed into vicious slits. She lunged, grabbing for Katya’s sleeve with one hand and aiming the other at her hair, clearly intending to shake the “ungrateful girl” into obedience.
“You gutter tramp!” she screamed across the courtyard, spitting. “It’s your fault! You drove him to it! You broke him! You’ll pay for everything! I won’t let you live in peace until you take Igor back! You have to save him—do you hear me?! You have to!”
Her sausage-like fingers with their chipped nails nearly caught Katya’s hood. Katya didn’t wait. Reflex fired faster than thought. She jerked aside, dodging the grab, and with all the disgust she’d been storing up, shoved the heavy woman away.
Larisa Gennadyevna didn’t expect resistance. She flailed her arms for balance, but the slick soles of her boots slid on a crust of ice. She toppled backward with a wet, muffled thump into a dirty, compacted snowbank piled near the steps.
Slush sprayed everywhere. Her coat soaked up gray muck instantly. She thrashed like a flipped-over bug, trying to push herself up, but her hands sank into wet sludge.
“You… you hit me!” she gasped, staring up at Katya. Her hat had slid down over her eyes, making her look like a crazed mushroom. “I’ll sue you! I’ll destroy you!”
“Get your head checked, Larisa Gennadyevna,” Katya shot back, pulling out her keys. Her hands trembled, but her voice was cold and sharp. “And take your failure of a son back to your own apartment. I’m done playing benefactor. Come near me again—and next time I won’t shove you into a snowbank. I’ll send you down the stairs.”
She tapped the key to the reader. The intercom beeped and the door swung open into the warm stairwell. Katya stepped inside without looking back at the shrieks and curses chasing her from the street. She thought that was the end of the evening’s nightmare—she only wanted to lock herself in, take a hot shower, and scrub away that feeling of sticky filth.
She had no idea the real surprise was waiting upstairs.
The heavy metal entrance door slammed shut behind her, cutting off the street noise and the screeching insults. Katya leaned against the rough, graffiti-scribbled wall near the mailboxes and tried to breathe. Her heart hammered up in her throat, thudding in her temples. It felt like the worst was over: she’d fought them off, she’d drawn a line, she’d physically defended her space.
Naïve.
She didn’t realize that had only been the first wave—reconnaissance. The main force had already taken position at the gates of her private fortress.
The elevator crawled down painfully slowly. Katya watched the gum-smeared numbers on the panel, dreaming of one thing only: lock the door, pour a full glass of wine, erase the entire evening. Finally the doors opened. She stepped into the cab, which smelled of old plastic and someone’s stale booze, and pressed the button for the seventh floor.
When the elevator stopped and the doors slid apart, Katya stepped out—and immediately stumbled, nearly dropping her bag.
Right in front of her apartment door, squatting like some alleyway thug, sat Igor. Beside him lay a huge duffel bag, swollen like a stuffed snake, a sleeve of a stale plaid shirt sticking out.
Igor lifted his head. He looked awful: a week’s worth of stubble, red inflamed eyes, and that expression Katya hated most—part wounded child, part arrogant little king who was sure the world owed him.
“Finally,” he grunted instead of greeting her, slowly standing and stretching his stiff legs. “I’ve been sitting here an hour. Where’ve you been? Why didn’t you pick up your phone? Mom called—said you were downstairs.”
Katya looked at him and felt a new wave rise inside her—not rage, but a kind of disgusted amazement. They’d coordinated. It was an operation: the mother was supposed to soften up the “target” downstairs—make her guilty, scare her—while the son waited upstairs, bags packed, ready to move in.
“What are you doing here, Igor?” she asked, her voice like ice, not moving toward the door. “You gave the keys back a month ago. I didn’t change the locks only because I thought you still had a shred of pride. Looks like I was wrong.”
“Katya, don’t start,” he winced as if his teeth hurt, stepping closer, trying to close the distance. He smelled of stale sweat and cheap tobacco. “We got heated, it happens. I’ve got nowhere to live, you get it? Lena—the witch—kicked me out. Said I’m ‘not going anywhere.’ Can you believe that? I even put up a shelf for her and she tossed me out into the cold. Going to my mom’s is impossible—my stepdad’s on another bender, you can’t breathe in that place. Just let me crash for the night. I’m asking like a human being. I’m not a stranger.”
“Not a stranger?” Katya laughed without warmth. “You’re nobody to me, Igor. You’re an ex who cheated on me—in my own bed. Leave.”
“Oh, come on, stop acting tough,” his voice rose, picking up a shrill edge. “Where am I supposed to go with a bag at this hour? I don’t even have money for a hostel! You’re kind, Katya. We lived together three years. I helped you with repairs… we even wallpapered together! That counts for something!”
At that moment, the elevator doors behind her slid open again with a clang. Katya didn’t even have time to turn around before the hallway filled with a familiar scream that climbed into ultrasound.
“There she is! Standing there like a queen—while her mother-in-law is lying in the snow!”
Larisa Gennadyevna burst out of the elevator, wheezing and heaving. She looked both epic and pathetic. Her once “fancy” coat now resembled a soaked, ragged cat: the fur clumped into icy strands, a huge dark stain spread across one side, and her hat sat crooked. Her face burned with righteous fury, and in her hand she clutched a torn-off button.
“Look at her, Igorek!” she shrieked, jabbing a filthy finger at Katya. “I came to her with my whole soul—and she threw me into a snowbank! Into dirt! An elderly woman! I’ll file a report! I’ll have bruises documented! You ruined my coat—this coat costs as much as your kidney!”
Seeing his mother like that, Igor switched instantly. Now he had a “legal” reason to be aggressive. He puffed out his chest, emboldened by the heavy artillery at his back.
“You seriously shoved my mom?” he crowded Katya, pressing her toward the wall. “Have you lost your mind? She’s old! What if she broke her hip?!”
“If she hadn’t put her hands on me, she’d be fine,” Katya snapped, clutching her bag tighter—the keys were inside. “Get away from my door. Both of you. Now.”
“We’re not going anywhere!” Larisa Gennadyevna barked, stepping right up close. She stank of wet fur and dirty street snow. “You’re going to open that door, let Igor in, and we’ll have a different kind of conversation. You owe us moral damages! And dry-cleaning! And besides—let the boy wash and eat. He’s looking at you with hungry eyes, and you stand there turning up your nose like a snake!”
The tension thickened by the second. The landing was narrow, and the two of them—Igor, big and unkempt, and his furious, filthy mother—boxed Katya into the corner with their bodies. They formed a living wall, pushing at her mind and her space.
“Open it,” Igor ordered, and yanked Katya by the shoulder. “Enough of this show. I’m tired. I’m hungry. You’ve probably got borscht or dumplings in there. Don’t be stingy. I’ll just sleep here… maybe stay a week, until I find a job. What, you can’t spare it? Two-bedroom place—I won’t bother you. I’ll take the couch.”
“What couch?!” Larisa Gennadyevna shrieked, flicking clumps of dirt off her sleeve onto the clean landing floor. “You’ll put him in the bedroom! He’s a man—he needs comfort. You can manage on the kitchen floor if you’re so proud! Look at her—she threw him out! Who do you think you are? You’re twenty-seven already—no husband, no children. You should be grateful he came back!”
“Give me the keys,” Igor demanded, holding out his palm—dirty lines ground into the skin. “If you can’t open it, I’ll do it. Your hands are shaking, huh? Guilty conscience?”
Katya stared at that open hand and felt the last fuse inside her burn through. They weren’t asking. They weren’t apologizing. They had come to take what they wanted, certain they had the right simply because they existed. Their audacity was so absolute it was almost cartoonish—except the stink of that wet fur and Igor’s heavy breath were painfully real.
“Take your hands off me,” Katya said softly, and a cold fury flooded her mind, sharpening her vision and clearing her thoughts.
“What’d you say?” Igor leaned in with a smirk. “Don’t do anything stupid, Katya. Mom’s freezing—she needs to dry off. Open the door while we’re still asking nicely. Otherwise I can kick it in. I was basically registered here… sort of. So I’ve got rights.”
He demonstratively kicked her door, leaving a muddy boot print on the pale wood. That was the point of no return.
Katya realized arguing in the hallway was useless—and dangerous. These two, warmed up by their own entitlement, were ready to start a fight right on the landing. The only chance was to open the door, slip inside, and slam it before they could wedge their way in.
Risky—but standing pinned to the wall was worse.
She silently put the key into the lock. Her hands moved with cold, mechanical precision. Two turns. Click. She yanked the heavy door toward herself, ready to dart into the dim safety of the entryway—
But Igor, despite his wrecked look, hadn’t drunk away all reflexes. The second the gap appeared, he shoved his filthy, worn boot—size forty-five—into the doorway.
“Whoa, not so fast, sweetheart,” he said, voice dripping with smug victory. “You don’t hide from guests. You welcome them.”
He leaned his shoulder into the door. Katya braced her feet and tried to force him back, but the weight difference was too much. And behind him Larisa Gennadyevna pushed too, adding her own bulk and wet fur. The door crept inward with a groan of hinges.
“Move your foot,” Katya hissed, her fingers going numb from strain.
“Not a chance!” Igor barked, and shoved harder.
Katya slammed into the coat rack, her elbow cracking painfully against the mirror. She stayed upright—barely. And then, into her spotless lavender-scented hallway, the two of them poured in like a mudslide, bringing with them damp, cheap tobacco, stale sweat, and that unmistakable winter rush-hour stench of overcrowded buses.
Breathing hard, Igor dragged his duffel inside and dropped it with a thud onto her light-colored mat. Dirty water immediately seeped from the bottom, forming a grim puddle.
“There,” he said, looking around like a man returning to his own home after a trip. “Now that’s better. Warm, bright. You nearly froze us out, you spiteful witch.”
Larisa Gennadyevna squeezed in after him and instantly began wrestling off her soaked coat. Drops of filthy water flew onto the wallpaper, the mirror, Katya’s own coat.
“Ugh, you ran me ragged, you parasite,” she grunted, hanging her wet, stinking fur right over Katya’s clothes as if she owned the place. “Well? Don’t just stand there. Put the kettle on! And get something to eat. We haven’t had a bite since lunch.”
Katya watched them and felt the last remnants of good manners die inside her. No pity. No sympathy. Only revulsion. She looked at Igor, already unzipping his jacket, and saw not the man she’d lived with for three years, but a parasite—something crawling toward the next host.
“You’re not living here,” she said, quietly but distinctly. “Both of you—get out. Now.”
“Oh, give it a rest,” Igor waved her off, walking deeper down the hall and peering into the bathroom. “‘Get out, get out’—you’re like a parrot. I want a shower. Lena’s hot water got shut off for nonpayment, can you imagine? Total idiot—can’t even pay utilities. You, at least, always have boiling water.”
He turned back, grinning crookedly.
“Hey, Katya, give me a clean towel. And… you still have my underwear? The blue ones? I’ve been wearing these for three days—starting to rot in them.”
The sheer casualness of it—this animal, unclouded shamelessness—made Katya’s stomach roll. He was telling her about his mistress’s hygiene problems while demanding service in Katya’s home.
“Are you completely insane, Igor?” Katya asked, looking straight into his dull eyes. “You cheat on a woman in her own bed and then show up asking for your underwear?”
“And what’s the big deal?” Larisa Gennadyevna cut in. She had already marched into the kitchen—judging by the refrigerator door—and now returned to the hallway chewing a piece of cheese she’d taken without asking. “Life happens. It didn’t work out with that tramp—so what? She treated him like dirt. Nagged him. And he’s a man with a delicate soul! He needs peace. And you’ve got a big apartment—empty. What, you can’t spare a corner for someone who’s practically family? It won’t kill you!”
She swallowed and wiped her greasy fingers on her massive hips under knit pants.
“Honestly, Katya, you should say thank you that we came to you at all. Means we’re not holding a grudge over your nasty personality. Igor will stay a month or two, get back on his feet, find a real job. And I’ll be stopping by to keep an eye on things—make sure you don’t break him again.”
“Keep an eye on things?” Katya repeated, her hands curling into fists.
“Of course!” the older woman barked, stepping closer. “You used him! Three years you used a man while he was still ‘good,’ while he fixed up your place! And the second trouble came, you tossed him out? No, sweetheart. That’s not how it works. We’re taking what we’re owed. The apartment might be in your name, but the energy in here is Igor’s! He knows every nail in these walls!”
“I hammered those nails!” Igor shouted from the bathroom where the shower had started roaring. He hadn’t even shut the door—his contempt for boundaries was complete. “Katya, where’s the normal shampoo? All I see is your girly stuff—smells like violets!”
Katya’s gaze slid to the muddy puddle on her mat. To the coat poisoning the air. To Larisa Gennadyevna chewing her cheese. To Igor stripping down in her bathroom.
This wasn’t just trespassing. It was desecration. They were turning her clean, calm life into a pigsty—the environment they themselves came from. They didn’t see her as a person, only a function: provide, serve, pay, endure.
“Did you hear what I said?” Larisa Gennadyevna jabbed Katya in the shoulder—hard, painful. “Get the man a towel! And run to the kitchen, make dinner. Stop standing there like a post. Igor’s tired—he’s stressed. And you stand here with a pout. Be easier, and people will like you.”
“Don’t touch me,” Katya said quietly, knocking her hand away.
“What?!” Larisa Gennadyevna spluttered. “That’s how you talk to your elders? I’ll rip your ears off, you brat! Lost all fear without a man’s hand over you? Don’t worry—Igor will shower and straighten you out. My boy’s hot-blooded when he’s angry.”
She stepped closer, about to shove or grab—something meant to crush Katya’s will, force obedience, make the homeowner into a servant. Her eyes held one desire: to trample, humiliate, and break her.
But she didn’t notice the change in Katya’s gaze. The exhaustion was gone. The fear, too. What remained was a cold, measured gleam.
Katya slowly glanced toward the bucket of dirty water sitting in the corner—the one she’d left that morning after mopping before work, forgetting to dump it. The water was cloudy with cleaner streaks and grit from shoes.
Perfect.
“So… he wants a wash?” Katya said in a strange, steady voice. “And food? Fine. You’ll get your bath and your dinner.”
She stepped toward the bucket. Her patience didn’t merely overflow—it cracked, and the shards flew.
“What are you standing there for?” Larisa Gennadyevna barked, advancing. “Are you deaf? I said: kitchen, now!”
In that instant, time compressed like a spring. Katya felt a piercing, icy clarity snap into place. She no longer saw an “older woman”—she saw a brazen intruder who had entered her home to turn it into a dump. Her eyes flicked to the bucket. The decision landed instantly, primal and certain.
“A bath, was it?” Katya said softly, with a smile that was almost frightening. “All right. Full luxury service.”
She bent fast, grabbed the cold metal handle with both hands, and—using the momentum of her turn—flung the entire contents, about seven liters of gray, freezing slurry full of sand and chemical residue, straight into Larisa Gennadyevna’s face and chest.
“Aaaaaah!” Larisa Gennadyevna’s scream could probably be heard all the way on the first floor. The filthy water flooded her eyes, poured into her open mouth mid-shriek, and ran down in muddy streams, soaking her sweater and pants instantly. Blinded and choking, she began thrashing her arms, splattering muck over the walls.
“What the hell are you doing, you bitch?!” Igor burst out of the bathroom, tangled in his pants. He was wet to the waist, hair covered in foam—ridiculous and pathetic, but his eyes burned with rage.
Katya didn’t wait for him to recover. Adrenaline surged, turning her fearless, almost feral. She felt no fear now—only a dizzying sense of release. She grabbed Igor’s heavy duffel, still sitting on her mat, and yanked the zipper open. It was stuffed to bursting with clothes and junk.
“What am I doing?” Katya shouted over Larisa Gennadyevna’s wailing. “I’m taking out the trash—years overdue!”
With all her strength, she hurled the open bag out into the stairwell. It sailed across the landing, slammed into the railing with a dull crack, and vomited its contents—dirty T-shirts, socks, random wires, cans—like spilled guts.
“My stuff!” Igor howled and lunged at Katya with his fist raised.
He slipped.
The floor of the entryway had become a slick rink from the soapy sludge she’d dumped on his mother. Igor’s feet shot out from under him and he crashed to his knees with a painful smack against the tile.
Katya didn’t waste a second. She snatched the mop from the corner—the stiff-bristled kind. Now it was her spear.
“Out!” she screamed, driving the filthy brush straight into Igor’s bare belly. “Out of my house—both of you!”
“I’ll kill you!” he rasped, trying to rise, but Katya shoved the mop into his chest with her full body weight, forcing him backward on all fours toward the doorway.
Larisa Gennadyevna finally managed to wipe her eyes and saw her son down on the floor. She lurched forward, fingers spread like claws.
“Don’t you touch my boy!” she shrieked, slipping in her own puddle.
Katya whipped around, gripped the mop like a bat, and smashed it into the wet fur coat hanging on the rack, knocking it down in a heavy heap right under the older woman’s feet. Larisa Gennadyevna tangled in the soggy fur and collapsed hard, straight into the filth.
“Get out!” Katya grabbed Igor by the wet collar of his half-on jacket and dragged him toward the threshold. He fought, slipped, cursed—yet fury gave Katya strength. She hauled him into the stairwell anyway.
Neighbors were already peeking out: curious faces appeared—Valya from the fifth, a teenager from the eighth. But Katya didn’t care. If anything, she wanted witnesses.
She shoved Igor out the door. He stumbled down the steps, knocking into his scattered belongings. Larisa Gennadyevna, realizing the fight was lost—and suspecting she’d be next—scrambled on hands and knees toward the exit, whimpering, collecting every bit of stairwell grime along the way.
“I don’t want to see either of you here again!” Katya shouted from the doorway, chest heaving, hair disheveled, eyes bright with triumph.
Down below, Igor hissed through clenched teeth, trying to cover himself. “Nobody wants you anyway, you psycho! You’re frigid, you’re a plank! I treated you like a queen and you—”
And then Katya delivered the last blow—not physical, but verbal. The kind that hurts more than any mop.
“Treated me like a queen?” she laughed loudly so the stairwell echoed. “Igor, don’t make people laugh. You know why that girl kicked you out, too? Because in bed you’re a ‘half-past six’—two minutes of embarrassment and then snoring. I kept quiet for three years to spare your precious ego. Thought maybe the ‘boy’ was stressed. Turns out you’re just an impotent loser who can’t satisfy a woman.”
The stairwell went silent—ringing, electric. Neighbors froze. Igor’s face turned so red it looked like his eyes might burst. It was total annihilation. His mother, gulping air, tried to croak something about “slander,” but her voice drowned in the weight of humiliation.
“And you,” Katya added, looking at Larisa Gennadyevna as she tried to lift her soaked coat off the landing floor, “take your treasure home. Let him show his ‘talents’ to you now. And be grateful I didn’t call sanitation after your little visit.”
“Curse you!” Larisa Gennadyevna screeched, backing down the stairs while propping up her son, who looked like he’d been run over. “You’ll die alone!”
“Better alone than drowning in your filth,” Katya snapped.
She watched Igor—soaked, half-naked, humiliated—trying to gather his dirty underwear off the steps while the teenage neighbor snickered. It was a victory—brutal and messy, but final.
Katya stepped back inside. She slammed the metal door. The locks clacked like gunshots, cutting off the past.
She leaned against the cold steel and slid down onto the floor—right into a puddle of dirty water. She didn’t care. She stared at the wrecked entryway: the mop on the floor, streaks of grime on the walls. There would be a massive cleanup—bleach, a new mat, maybe even new wallpaper.
But it was her mess. Her home.
The air was heavy, but it no longer smelled of hopelessness. It smelled like freedom.
Katya smiled for the first time that evening—fierce, and relieved. She stood, stepped over the puddle, and turned the top lock.
Two full turns.
For good.
