I was met with a deafening slam as the door crashed shut, causing my mother’s cherished porcelain elephant figurine to tumble from its place on the hallway shelf. I kept my gaze forward, refusing to turn around, my teeth clenched as I clutched the bag that my mother had been holding on to, as if it were the last connection to this house.
“You are not going anywhere!” Her voice pierced through the silence, relentless and sharp. “You’ve nowhere to go! Maybe to the station? With your pride?”
With a sudden jerk, I pulled the bag towards me, the fabric strained under the pressure, yet it remained in my grip. Within it was everything I could snatch in the span of ten minutes amid her angry outbursts: important documents, my laptop, a few T-shirts, and my phone, which had a broken screen thanks to Kristina’s ‘accidental’ nudge the day before.
“I refuse to sit by while you all rejoice in my downfall.” I announced defiantly.
My mother halted in her tracks, her expression contorting — not with regret but with fury over my audacity to voice what everyone else had left unsaid.
Memories flooded back: the wedding that would never occur.
Three months prior, Artyom and I perused wallpaper samples for our soon-to-be-shared apartment.
“What about this one?” he suggested, pointing at a swatch I despised.
“Are you serious? That’s the shade of dried blood!”
He chuckled, pulling me close:
“Alright then, we’ll choose what you prefer.”
At that moment, I thought, “How easygoing he is!” Little did I know, I was mistaken.
His ease was not compliance but rather indifference.
All these plans — the apartment, the renovations, the wedding — had been orchestrated for me. And unbeknownst to me, Kristina, my younger sister, was crucial to this scheme. In the now echoing silence, she wept behind the walls — the very reason I was gathering my things.
“Do you even comprehend the consequences of your actions?” my mother spat, obstructing my exit. “She’s three months along! If anything happens due to this stress…”
“What about my well-being?” I retorted, fists clenched.
“You?” she scoffed. “You are resilient, and strong.”
Indeed, resilient. Because if I were truly fragile, I would have crumpled at the revelation that:
- Artyom had been involved with Kristina for the past six months.
- She was pregnant.
- Everyone was in the know.
- They had all chosen silence.
“They were merely trying to protect you from distress,” a lie they clung to.
“Where’s my money?” I boldly asked, meeting my mother’s gaze.
Her eyes widened in surprise.
“What money?”
“The cash from my drawer. You’re aware I mean that.”
Her stare shifted evasively.
“You used it for yourself and merely forgot.”
Naturally, that was conveniently convenient for her.
I turned, stepping into the hallway, where a makeshift council had formed: my father, quiet as if on a covert mission; Aunt Lida, arms crossed and face twisted into an expression of reproach as though I had robbed her; and, of course, Kristina.
She was still sobbing, clutching her belly.
“How could you do this?” Aunt Lida sneered. “You’ve ruined your sister! What if she loses the baby?”
I slowly pivoted to face Kristina.
“And what if mine suffers?”
Silence fell upon us.
“…What baby are you referencing?” Aunt Lida went pale.
“This one,” I said, offering a chilling smile. “By the way, Artyom has been with me this whole time too, without any protection. So if worst comes to worst… well, you’ll have two grandchildren to look forward to. No need to skimp on the christening expenses.”
My mother gasped, clutching her heart.
“You’re lying!”
“Check the facts.”
I turned and left.
Behind me came voices of distress, my father’s, calm yet firm:
“Let her go… She needs space.”
He was the only one not scolding me. He understood — I wouldn’t be returning.
The elevator was sluggish. I gripped my bag tightly.
Where would I go now? For the moment, just to a place far removed from here.
Each passing floor made the elevator feel like it was inching forward. With my forehead pressed against the cold metal wall, I sought to hold back tears, acutely aware that our whole family drama had been on display for the neighbors to overhear.
Outside, rain hammered down. I walked without focus, clutching my phone tightly. The persistent question echoed: Where to go?
To the station? I didn’t even have a ticket. To friends? Those who likely already knew about Artyom and Kristina? Certainly not.
Eventually, a budget hotel address popped up on Google. An hour on the metro, two transfers amidst a downpour — I found myself in a room that reeked of dampness and cheap air freshener.
I collapsed onto the firm bed, unbothered to change from my drenched sweater. My phone buzzed incessantly:
Mom (12 missed calls) — “Come back! We must discuss this! You’re misinterpreting everything!”
Kristina (3 voicemails) — sobbing, offering a justification about how they didn’t wish to hurt me.
Artyom (1 message) — terse: “Where are the keys to the apartment?”
I muted my phone.
Then, a realization hit me: I was homeless.
Our dreamed-up apartment for the wedding was now their hideout. My parents’ house was simply a place where I had been betrayed. Even my secret stash was gone, thanks to my mother.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Snatches of phrases circulated in my mind:
- “She is your sister!”
- “You need to understand this…”
- “Artyom was merely confused!”
All nonsensical justifications.
The phone interrupted my solitude well past midnight. I flinched as I noticed the name on the screen: Grandma Vera.
“Lerka, are you okay?” Her voice, hoarse and curt, left no room for pleasantries.
I remained silent, squeezing the receiver as tears streamed down my cheeks.
“Alright, I’ll be quiet. I just found out about this disgrace from Aunt Lida yesterday. Had I known sooner, I would have broken every bone in their bodies.”
A small laugh escaped through my tears.
“Where are you right now?”
“In a hotel.”
“Do you have money?”
“A little left…”
Noises came from her end; she was rummaging for something.
“Listen carefully. I have a plot outside the city. A humble cottage — an old shack, but with a roof. There’s water from a well and electricity from a generator. I haven’t told anyone about this, not even your mother.”
I sat up straight on the bed.
“Why would you offer this to me?”
“Your grandfather built it for fishing. After he passed away, it remained untouched. It’s yours. Do with it as you please—sell it, live in it. Just be cautious…”
Her voice dropped slightly.
“Your mother and Kristina are already squabbling over your part in the ‘family’ apartment. Artyom, that lowlife, is altering the mortgage papers. If you don’t take action now, they’ll consume you whole.”
I tightened my grip on the phone.
“Come see me tomorrow. We’ll finalize the arrangements.”
I settled back down, staring at the ceiling.
Somewhere in “our” apartment, Artyom was likely cozying up to Kristina, contemplating which furniture to buy to replace what I had ruined.
And I… I focused on the crack in the ceiling of the hotel room, a smile slowly spreading across my face for the first time all day.
Now I had a plan.
Back at the apartment, the key still turned the lock.
Standing at the threshold of what was once “our” apartment, I paused, absorbing the stillness. Nobody was home. Artyom had likely chosen to stay at Kristina’s, convinced I was wallowing away in shame somewhere.
He was gravely mistaken.
The hallway bore the scent of fresh paint — they’d begun covering up the remnants of my earlier presence. New laminate lay against the wall, still in its packaging as they hastily transformed this space into their love shack.
I placed my bag on the floor and retrieved:
A hammer (taken from my father’s garage).
A can of paint (black matte, ideal for my purpose).
Scissors (large and sharp).
The first target was the hallway mirror — the very one where Artyom and I once giggled while trying on wedding accessories.
With a strong blow, the glass shattered into countless pieces.
Another hit!
Only tiny fragments remained.
“That feels better,” I murmured to myself.
I moved further:
In the kitchen, I sliced into the new tablecloth (one I had chosen but would now see her sitting on).
In the living room, I drenched the beige sofa (repulsive like all the others) with paint — a task I had long awaited since day one.
Moving into the bedroom, I slashed the silk sheets (a gift from my mom intended for the wedding night).
Yet the bathroom was my ultimate delight.
There hung a heart-shaped towel holder — a gift from Kristina (inscribed with the words “to keep love alive!”).
I ripped it off the wall, smashed it into the floor.
“For good fortune.”
To finish the artwork, I wrote on the wall in black paint:
“Happy steaming”
Taking a final glance around, the apartment was no longer pristine. It bore signs of distress and anger, much like I did.
I exited without looking back.
The phone vibrated again – Grandma:
“The paperwork is ready. The keys to the cabin are waiting for you. Have you made a decision?”
I smiled and messaged back:
“I’m staying.”
A morning at the cabin greeted me with an undeniable chill.
Grandma hadn’t exaggerated — this little house had no heating. I wrapped myself in a blanket salvaged from that wretched apartment and approached the small window. Outside, I faced a picturesque landscape of forest, mist, and tranquility. No more mothers, sisters, or Artyoms.
My phone erupted with notifications:
Mom (25 missed calls) — “You’ve lost your mind! Who brought you up this way?!”
Kristina (sobbing voice messages) — “How could you dismantle our home?!”
Artyom (1 message) — “You’re a lunatic. I’m filing a lawsuit for property damages.”
I promptly switched off my phone.
On the battered table lay:
The official deed to the plot (now mine).
An envelope filled with cash (Grandma wrote: “For your first chainsaw purchase”).
A note: “Lerka, should you decide to stay — there’s a well in the yard and firewood beneath the shed. You will survive. Alternatively, if you choose otherwise — sell and venture far away. The choice is yours.”
I grabbed an axe and stepped outside.
The firewood needed chopping. I faced a task I had never attempted before.
My first strike buried the axe in the log. The second swung wide, nearly striking my leg. By the third attempt, my hands shook, and sweat trailed down my back; nevertheless, I succeeded.
I chuckled. It was my first genuine laugh in weeks.
That evening, they arrived.
Mom stepped out of the car donned in a fur coat (it was only five degrees Celsius in the forest), while Kristina looked pale, dark circles visible beneath her eyes. Artyom remained seated in the car — evidently terrified that I would unleash my pent-up wrath.
“You need to reimburse for the repairs!” my mother yelled. “We’ve lodged a police complaint!”
“What funds?” I leaned against the axe, serene. “Didn’t you just say I spent it myself?”
Kristina burst into tears:
“How can you survive here?! It’s the end of civilization!”
I glanced around the cabin, the stretching woods, and the rising smoke from the chimney.
“But it feels honest.”
My mother was momentarily quiet, then heaved a sigh.
“Are you… truly going to live here?”
I walked towards the cottage, a secure retreat, not bothering to respond.
“Try to evict me.”
That night, I managed to light the fireplace (with considerable effort), wrapped myself in a blanket, and opened my laptop.
On screen was an advertisement:
“Renting a cabin in the woods. Ideal for tourists, bloggers, those seeking refuge. Open to negotiations.”
A smile crept across my face as I added:
“P.S. Axe included. Well. Peace. No relatives allowed.”
Sitting on the porch, savoring hot tea from a tin mug, I heard a loud crack among the branches.
“Well, Mr. Bear, come to finish me off?” I called out into the night, clutching the axe tightly.
From the thickets emerged… a delivery courier.
“Lera Sokolova? You received a package.”
I lowered the axe. Inside the parcel were:
A new phone (my old one had found its way into the well a week before).
An envelope filled with cash (three times the amount I had requested for a week’s rental).
A note: “Your blog about ‘life after all’ is outstanding. Interested in a contract with a media agency? P.S. The axe on-screen could look excellent.”
I laughed and glanced at my phone, which now displayed 157 unread messages.
The first — from Mom: “You aired our family drama across the entire internet?!”
The second — from Kristina: “You can have Artyom back. He…”
Without another thought, I deleted everything.
Only one number remained in my mind.
“Grandma,” I voiced as she picked up, “I have decided not to sell the plot.”
“That’s good to hear,” Grandma replied, her voice steady. “I’ve stocked up on popcorn while waiting for your mother to bombard you with lectures on ‘family honor.’”
“Let her try,” I said, nudging the axe idly with my foot. “Now I’ve got supporters. And lawyers from the agency.”
The wind whisked the smoke from the chimney away. Somewhere within the woods, an owl hooted softly.
At long last, I had found my home.