The night was humid and sultry, as if the air had thickened. Cars rarely passed through the deserted intersection—their headlights briefly illuminating two people frozen over a body on the wet asphalt beneath the trembling light of a streetlamp. The body lay motionless, and nearby stood Igor—her husband. He was shaking with fear, his face paler than the asphalt itself.
Marina, on the other hand, felt a strange calmness, almost icy. The panic had faded, replaced by a primal instinct—to protect. To protect him, her beloved, lost and frightened man who looked at her with the eyes of a child suddenly confronted with death.
“I… I killed him,” he blurted out, his voice trembling like that of a frightened teenager. “Marina, I killed a man!”
She grabbed his shoulders sharply and shook him, trying to bring back even a drop of reason before fear completely consumed him.
“It was self-defense!” she said firmly. “He attacked us, remember? And he wasn’t alone—the other one ran away. He might come back. Or the police.”
The town was small, almost provincial. Everyone knew each other, and any news spread through the streets faster than the wind. The fear in Igor’s eyes, his trembling, confusion—all of it was painfully obvious. They would find him. Accuse him. Convict him. And he wouldn’t stand it. He would break at the first interrogation.
A plan rapidly formed in Marina’s mind—cruel, insane, but the only possible one. She looked at her husband: slumped shoulders, trembling lips, helpless hands. No, he couldn’t handle it. But she could.
“Go home,” she said decisively, pushing him into the darkness. “Go to bed. If anyone asks—you were at home. Understand? Otherwise, they’ll lock you up. You’re a man—they’ll give you a sentence. But they might be lenient with me. I’m a woman.”
She herself called the ambulance and the police. Her voice on the phone sounded cold, calm—as if she were reporting a burst radiator. The moment she hung up, Marina realized: there was no turning back. She had made her choice.
The police station was filled with official chill and the smell of old paint. Marina answered the investigator calmly, confidently, almost indifferently:
“I was coming from work, he jumped out from around the corner, grabbed my bag. I fought back… pushed him… he fell. I didn’t want to.”
The first night in the cell. Cold, creaking wooden bunks, flickering light under the ceiling. Marina lay staring into the darkness, repeating to herself like a spell: “I did everything right. He won’t betray me. He will wait.”
The cell resembled a godforsaken dormitory. The air was thick with sweat, cigarette smoke, and sorrow. Marina, neat and quiet, at first tried to be invisible. But it couldn’t last long.
The boss here was Rys’ — thin, sharp, with a piercing gaze. On the second day she approached Marina, as if sizing up her prey:
“Wet one? What’d you get locked up for, mouse?”
Next to her sat Wanda—a woman older, with sad eyes that seemed to reflect her entire life. She looked gently, almost motherly.
“Don’t listen to her. Tell it like it is. It’ll ease your soul.”
And Marina told. Almost the whole truth. About self-defense, about fear. But her eyes betrayed more than words.
“For a man, huh?” snorted Rys’. “Fool. He’ll leave you. They all do.”
Marina was silent, biting her lip. She didn’t allow herself to doubt. She believed. She had to believe.
Her link to the outside world were rare letters and parcels from Igor. He brought food, sat behind the glass, said he loved her, that he was holding on. Every word gave her strength. “He won’t betray me,” she whispered to herself every night as she lay down on the hard bunk.
After several years, good recommendations and remorse brought results—parole. Marina would be released.
Igor met her at the colony gates. He seemed somehow distant, tense. He hugged her quickly, let go, not looking her in the eyes.
“They offered me a job,” he said on the taxi ride. “Driving up North. They pay well. I might be gone for a long time.”
Drunk on freedom, Marina didn’t notice the troubling notes in his voice. She rejoiced in the sun, fresh air, city streets. Everything would be fine, she convinced herself. It just needed time.
But reality was harsh. When trying to find work, an invisible wall appeared everywhere:
“We don’t hire ex-convicts,” they politely or contemptuously refused.
Finances ran out. Before leaving, Igor left an envelope with money:
“For the beginning. I’ll send transfers.”
But no transfers came. The money ended, and work did not. Marina took out her father’s old Zhiguli car, fixed it up a bit, and started working as a taxi driver.
It was a new hell. Drunken clients, harassment attempts, brazen teenagers running off without paying. Once a passenger, getting chatty, asked about her past. Marina answered honestly. The man’s face changed instantly; he asked to stop the car, threw a crumpled bill on the seat, and left as if she were contagious. That night she cried behind the wheel, feeling humiliated and utterly alone.
On a rainy autumn evening, tired and irritated, Marina was returning home. Heavy thoughts swirled in her head; the road blurred before her eyes. And then—a poorly lit pedestrian crossing. She noticed the figure too late.
The brakes screamed, a dull thud followed. Her heart froze. Marina jumped out of the car. On the wet asphalt sat a man, holding his leg.
“Are you alive?” she whispered, feeling the ground slip beneath her feet. Panic overwhelmed her completely. Not again. Not “back inside.” Not this.
The man’s name was Artyom. He tried to stand but screamed in pain. Calling the police was impossible—that was the first thought that came to Marina’s mind. As if guided by intuition, she helped him sit in the car and drove him home.
She treated his abrasions, applied ice to the swollen bump on his forehead, gave him hot tea. Gradually a conversation began between them. Artyom turned out to be a calm, kind person who did not blame her, was not afraid, and even apologized for the trouble.
The conversation grew easier, more trusting. Then Artyom’s gaze fell on a photo on the dresser: young, happy Marina and Igor—before all that nightmare that separated them.
“Is that your husband?” he asked, hesitating slightly. His voice grew cautious, wary.
“Yes,” Marina nodded. “He’s on a shift now. Far away.”
Artyom thought for a moment, silent as he chose his words.
“Forgive me… does your Igor happen to have a twin brother?”
Marina frowned. He began carefully telling about his acquaintance Vera, about her common-law husband also named Igor, about strange ambiguities in their relationship.
Inside Marina, everything grew cold. She tried to brush off the terrible thoughts, but memories of Rys’s words, the prison friend, were already waking like a poisonous weed.
“Come with me,” Artyom gently offered. “Just to check. Better to know the truth, whatever it is.”
The road to the suburbs seemed endless. Marina drove, hands clenched, cold with fear. Here was the right house, the right entrance. The doorbell. A woman with a rounded belly—Vera—opened.
Her gaze slid over Marina, then stopped on Artyom:
“Artyom? What happened?”
From deep inside the apartment came a voice like an electric shock:
“Verochka, who’s there?”
Igor stood on the threshold. Seeing Marina, he froze, his face paler than a sheet. Time stopped. Then Marina stepped forward and struck him hard on the cheek. The slap was so loud it seemed the echo rolled through all the rooms.
“What are you doing!” Vera screamed, defending him.
A terrible scandal began. Deception, lies, double life—it all came out. Vera found out that the beloved man was not just married but that his wife had just come out of prison, serving time for him.
“You said you were on trips!” she screamed. “You lied to me!”
Vera proved to have a strong character. Through tears, she pushed Igor out the door, throwing his things after him:
“Get out! Don’t ever show your face again!”
When Marina returned home, she faced a new blow—Igor was already there. Like the owner, he dragged his things and now sat in her kitchen as if nothing had happened. It took Artyom’s help to get him out. Even his mother came running, lamenting:
“Marinochka, dear, forgive my fool! He’s been fooling around, the fool!”
After everyone left, she and Artyom sat in the kitchen for a long time. Marina told him everything—without concealment. About love, sacrifice, blindness, and the pain of betrayal. He listened attentively, without judgment, with sincere respect in his eyes.
A week later, Artyom proposed to her. Simply, without pomp. He said a woman like her deserved real happiness.
They began a new life. Supported Vera, who gave birth to a son, Danya. Marina’s apartment was rented out; they moved to another city—where no one knew their past.
Several months passed. They were renovating the new house. It smelled of paint, freshness, and hope. Over cups of tea from new mugs, they talked about plans. Marina looked at Artyom, into his warm, kind eyes, and smiled.
“You know,” she said softly, “all this terrible story… was worth it if I met you.”