“Kolya, are you deaf? I’m asking you for the third time—where are the clothes from the left section? Where is my black floor-length dress and my beige trench coat?”
Olga stood in front of the wide-open sliding wardrobe, her gaze—normally sharp and observant—now drifting uselessly across empty space. Just a week earlier, garment bags with expensive clothes had hung there in dense, orderly rows. Now only a few lonely plastic hangers swayed, clinking softly in the draft with an unpleasant, bone-dry sound.
It looked like a looting. A rushed, shameless raid.
The suitcase she had dragged into the apartment moments earlier still stood abandoned in the hallway, blocking the passage. She hadn’t even taken off her shoes—she stood frozen on the glossy laminate floor of the bedroom.
There was no answer.
From the kitchen came only the murmur of the TV and the dull clink of a fork against a plate. The sounds of a comfortable, well-fed life—one she had barged into with her return at the worst possible time.
Olga spun around sharply, her temple throbbing from exhaustion after an eight-hour flight and time-zone changes. She walked down the hallway without removing her shoes. Dark, greasy streaks from her soles smeared across the floor, but for once she didn’t care about the cleanliness she usually guarded obsessively.
The kitchen smelled of fried onions and something sour, like cheap ketchup.
Nikolai sat with his back to her, hunched over his plate. A mountain of navy-style pasta sat before him, grotesquely drenched in mayonnaise. He ate fast and greedily, shoveling huge bites into his mouth without looking away from the TV, where some brainless comedy series was playing.
“Do you hear me or not?” Olga stepped up to the table and slammed her palm onto the countertop. The fork in her husband’s hand jerked, a blob of mayonnaise splattering onto the oilcloth.
Nikolai slowly, clearly unwillingly, turned his head. His lips shone with grease. His eyes were dull and unfocused, like someone yanked out of a pleasant dream. He chewed, swallowed loudly, and only then looked at her.
There was no joy at her return. No interest. Only mild irritation that she had interrupted his dinner.
“Why are you yelling right away?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You got home—so go change, wash your hands. I left you some pasta, if it hasn’t dried out. You burst in here like the Gestapo.”
“I’m not asking about pasta,” Olga said quietly, steel ringing in her voice. She stared at his slick face and didn’t recognize the man she had lived with for five years. “I opened the closet. It’s empty. Where are my things, Kolya? Where is my Max Mara coat? Where’s the silk dress I wore once to the company anniversary? Where the hell is my cashmere cardigan?”
Nikolai rolled his eyes, as if she were talking about a missing sock rather than a wardrobe worth as much as a used car. He speared another clump of pasta with his fork.
“Oh. You mean the rags…” he drawled lazily. “Sveta stopped by the day before yesterday. My sister—since you’re always off on your business trips.”
“And?” Olga felt a block of ice form in her stomach. “She came by. So what? She stole them?”
“Why ‘stole’ right away?” Nikolai grimaced as if he’d bitten into a lemon. “What disgusting words. I gave them to her. Let her borrow them. She’s got a serious opportunity coming up—a guy from work, well-off, invited her to a restaurant. And what does Sveta have in her closet? Jeans and shapeless hoodies. She came crying, said she had nothing to wear, was ashamed. So I told her—go check Olga’s closet, she’s got tons of stuff, doesn’t even wear half of it.”
Olga stared at him, unable to believe what she was hearing. The world tilted for a second.
He said it so casually, so matter-of-factly—like he’d lent a neighbor some salt or an old chair.
“You gave her my clothes?” she asked slowly, separating every word. “Are you out of your mind, Kolya? Those are my personal things. I bought them with my own money. Designer clothes—each piece costs more than you earn in two months at your warehouse. Do you even understand what you’ve done?”
“Oh, don’t start that song about money,” Nikolai waved his fork, splashing sauce. “You measure everything in money. Someone was in trouble—you help. Family, by the way. And you’re being stingy? You’re sorry for your sister-in-law over a piece of fabric? She’ll wear it and give it back. Wash it and return it. You won’t melt.”
“Wash it?” Olga felt nausea rise in her throat. “Silk? Cashmere? In her ancient washing machine that shreds everything? Do you understand these things require dry cleaning? That you don’t just stuff them in a bag and haul them off?”
Nikolai exhaled loudly, clearly exhausted by her “pettiness.” He pushed his plate aside, turned fully toward her, and planted his hands on his hips. That smug, condescending expression appeared—the one he wore whenever logic wasn’t on his side and he decided to bulldoze instead.
“Listen, Olya—are you seriously starting a fight over clothes? I thought you missed me. Thought you’d hug me, tell me about your trip. Instead, you start an inventory audit. It’s ugly. Petty. So what if a girl took some dresses? She needs them more right now. She needs to build a life, get married. And where are you going to wear them? To meetings? Who are you trying to impress there?”
“I’m going to see what else is missing,” Olga said, turning away. She knew if she stayed another minute, she’d smash the plate of pasta over his head.
“Go on, go count your treasures, Scrooge McDuck in a skirt,” Nikolai called after her, grabbing the remote and turning up the volume to drown out whatever conscience he might—or might not—have had.
Back in the bedroom, Olga inspected the wardrobe again, slowly this time, with the cold precision of an investigator.
Not only the outerwear was gone. Two brand-new blouses with tags were missing. The leather skirt. The box with Italian shoes she’d bought in Milan and worn only on special occasions.
She pictured Sveta—Nikolai’s heavy, perpetually sweaty sister—pulling on her finest silk. Forcing her wide feet into elegant pumps, warping the leather. Dousing the clothes in cheap perfume, then spilling wine on them in some loud bar.
Olga stood in the middle of the room, fists clenched so hard her nails bit into her palms. The exhaustion vanished. In its place came rage—pure, concentrated, white-hot rage that made her ears ring.
This wasn’t just theft. It was an invasion. Muddy boots on clean sheets.
She returned to the kitchen. Nikolai had finished eating and was now slurping tea from a mug with a chipped handle.
“You gave her the shoes,” Olga said. It wasn’t a question.
“What, should she go barefoot?” he snorted. “You need shoes with a dress. Her size is almost the same—maybe half a size bigger, but she’ll break them in. Leather stretches.”
“Break them in…” Olga repeated, staring at his smug face. “You understand that you’re going to her place right now and take everything back. This minute.”
Nikolai slammed his mug onto the table, tea spilling. His smile vanished, replaced by a snarl.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he snapped. “I’m not dragging myself across the city at night to take clothes from my sister and humiliate myself. Are you insane? Let her go on the date—then you can take them back. You’ll survive.”
Olga looked at him, a dark fire igniting in her eyes. She understood—talking was over. This man didn’t understand words. He understood only force.
The silence in the kitchen thickened, heavy as the cheap mayonnaise on his plate. Olga stared at her husband, feeling as if she were seeing him for the first time. As if a veil had finally fallen—the one she’d spent years pulling over her eyes, excusing his laziness as “fatigue” and his rudeness as a “simple, down-to-earth” nature.
Now, sitting in front of her, was someone utterly alien—in values, in spirit, in his very perception of reality.
“You didn’t just give away my clothes, Kolya,” she said slowly, deliberately, feeling a tight spring begin to tremble somewhere deep in her chest. “You gave away my green velvet collector’s dress. Do you even know how long I searched for it? Do you remember I bought it with my first big bonus three years ago? That’s not just fabric—it’s my trophy. And you threw it to your sister like a bone to a dog.”
Nikolai winced as if his tooth ached. He shoved the empty plate aside and leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head. His T-shirt rode up, exposing a pale, soft belly with sparse reddish hair.
“Trophy…” he mocked in a thin, squeaky voice. “Oh, spare me. When was the last time you looked in the mirror, huntress? Why are you freaking out over junk? Sveta needs it more. She’s thirty-five—no man, no kids, no prospects. She needs to put on a show to catch someone. And you? You’re married. You don’t need to attract anyone. Wear whatever—you’re taken.”
Olga felt the blood drain from her face.
This wasn’t just rudeness. It was the worldview of a parasite—one who believed that once a woman was “claimed,” she became inventory, no longer requiring care or respect.
“So, in your opinion, being married to you means I should turn into a scarecrow?” she asked quietly. “Walk around in a potato sack while your sister parades around in my fifty-thousand-ruble dresses?”
Nikolai lunged forward, slamming his elbows on the table. His face hardened.
“Enough with the price tags!” he barked. “I’m sick of your money talk! ‘Fifty thousand, a hundred thousand’—ugh! You’re soulless, Olya. Sveta came crying—it’s her last chance. And you’re stingy? I’ll tell you more. I didn’t just let her take them. I helped her choose.”
He paused, savoring the effect. A nasty, triumphant grin spread across his face.
“And you know what?” he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that made Olga shudder. “You wouldn’t have worn that dress anyway. Or those tight jeans. I see it. You’ve gained weight this year. Filled out. Your ass has grown from all those company-paid trips. Sveta tried it on—it fits her perfectly. She’s juicy, curvy. On you it would’ve burst at the seams. So be grateful the clothes are being used instead of collecting dust while you pack on fat.”
Something rang sharply in Olga’s ears. The world narrowed to his smug, greasy face. Each word hit like a stone dropped into a well, stirring black sludge from the bottom.
That was the end. The point of no return.
Love hadn’t died just now—it had probably died long ago. But respect died in this moment. Pity died. All that remained was the desire to destroy.
Olga drew in a breath. When she spoke, her voice—shattered into a scream—scraped like metal.
“You piece of trash…”
“That’s me?!”
She exploded.
“You let your sister go through my wardrobe and take my designer clothes while I was on a business trip?! You told her, ‘Take whatever you want—she’s gained weight and won’t fit into them anyway’?! You humiliated me and handed out my things like I was dead?! You’re going to her place right now, take back every single rag down to the last sock—and then you can stay with her forever, because I don’t need an idiot like you!”
She screamed so loudly the veins stood out on her neck. A glass of water on the table trembled. Nikolai, unprepared for this, shrank into his chair, blinking.
“Olya, are you hysterical? Quiet! The neighbors will hear!” he hissed.
“I don’t care about the neighbors!” Olga stepped toward him, and he instinctively recoiled. “Did you hear me? Go. Now. Take everything back—or stay with her forever!”
“You’ve lost your mind!” he snapped, trying to regain control as he jumped up and loomed over her. “You’re kicking me out over clothes? I’m your husband! I’m the man of the house! You’re ready to destroy a family over rags? Who’ll want you—divorced, full of complexes? Sveta’s warm-hearted. You’re cold.”
“I said—get out,” Olga grabbed a heavy ceramic salt shaker from the table, not even knowing why. Her hands shook—not from fear, but from adrenaline. “Either you go now and bring everything back, or—”
“Or what?” he sneered, cutting her off. The fear vanished, replaced by arrogance. He was sure she wouldn’t dare. Women always scream, then calm down. “You’ll hit me? Go ahead. I’m not going anywhere. And Sveta won’t give the clothes back. I gave them—end of story. Accept it, fatty. Go make me some tea. My throat’s dry from your screeching.”
He turned his back on her and reached for the TV remote.
Olga stared at his broad back stretched under a worn T-shirt. At the rolls of fat hanging over his belt. At his certainty that he was untouchable.
Something inside her clicked—loud and final. Like a switch flipping from “human” to “executioner.”
She slowly set the salt shaker down. Her gaze went glassy, calm, terrifying.
“All right, Kolya,” she said evenly. “You’re right. Clothes are nothing. And you won’t need yours anymore either.”
She turned and walked into the hallway—to the storage closet where the toolbox lay.
Nikolai didn’t even look up, laughing at a joke from the show, unaware that his cozy world was about to collapse and the debris would hit him head-on.
The air in the closet smelled of dust, old shoes, and ski wax. Her hand found a heavy, cold tool on the shelf—old tailor’s scissors from her grandmother. Massive, solid metal, black handles, blades sharp enough to bite through wire. Her grandmother had cut coat fabric with them. Olga was about to cut her life apart.
The weight of the steel steadied her.
When she returned to the bedroom, Nikolai was sprawled on the bed, feet in dirty socks propped up. He picked his teeth with a toothpick, satisfied that “the woman had yelled and calmed down.”
“Done throwing a fit?” he snorted. “Go put the kettle on. Make some sandwiches.”
Olga walked past him in silence, her steps firm and measured. She went not to her empty side of the closet, but to the right section—his territory.
She yanked the door open. Rows of his shirts, jeans, jackets hung neatly—washed, ironed, smelling of the fabric softener she chose.
“What are you doing?” he propped himself up, alarm rising.
Olga didn’t answer. She took his favorite jeans—dark blue, expensive, the ones he’d bragged about all year.
“Olya!” panic broke into his voice.
Rrrrip.
The sound was wet, final. The scissors tore into the dense denim just below the waistband. She squeezed the handles with both hands. The fabric gave way with a pitiful crack. One leg dangled by a thread.
“What the hell are you doing, you psycho?!” Nikolai leapt up, eyes bulging. The toothpick fell from his mouth.
Olga didn’t look at him. Another cut—and the leg dropped to the floor. The jeans became grotesque, uneven shorts.
“You don’t need these either,” she said calmly, tossing them onto his side of the bed. “You look terrible in them anyway. Crooked legs, knees sticking out. Why embarrass people?”
She reached for the next item—a light-blue dress shirt he wore to corporate events.
“Don’t touch that!” he shrieked, lunging at her.
Olga spun around, raising the open scissors. The sharp tips glinted inches from his stomach.
“Step back,” she said quietly.
He did.
“Call the police!” he babbled, pale. “That costs money!”
“Go ahead,” she nodded, cutting. “Tell them your wife lost her mind from happiness.”
Buttons scattered across the floor like plastic rain. Collar gone. Sleeves gone. The shirt shredded.
“This is for my silk,” she hissed, flinging scraps at him. “And this—for my cashmere!”
The jacket went next. Then sweaters. T-shirts. Even ties—she chopped them into ribbons, like green onions. The room filled with the rhythmic snip-snip-snip of destruction.
Nikolai stood pressed against the dresser, tears streaming—not for his wife, not from shame, but for his ruined things.
“You’ll pay for this…” he croaked.
“I already did,” Olga said, grabbing his new down jacket.
She stabbed the scissors into the center of the back and ripped downward. White feathers burst out, swirling through the air like snow. She tore it apart, feathers sticking to her hair, his face, the furniture.
“Like it?” she shouted. “Winter’s here, Kolya! Dress warm! Oh—right. Nothing to wear.”
She dropped the remains at his feet.
Then she lowered the scissors and pointed toward the door.
“Now take off your pants.”
“What?”
“Take them off. I bought them. The underwear—you can keep. I’m not a monster. But the pants—off. Now.”
She clicked the scissors.
“One…”
His hands trembled as he undid his belt.
November cold waited outside.
She handed him an armful of shredded fabric.
“Your dowry,” she said. “Everything you earned in five years of marriage.”
She opened the door and shoved him out.
“Ask your sister for clothes,” she shouted