“Why didn’t you answer your phone for the last three hours?” Sveta’s voice wasn’t loud—just thick and muffled, as if it were coming from inside a barrel. She stood in the hallway, leaning all her weight on her healthy left leg, twisting the right one at an awkward angle to keep pressure off the swollen joint.
Sasha, who had just stepped into the apartment, casually hung his jacket on a hook. He smelled of cold street air and cheap tobacco—the kind he only smoked when he was stressed. He didn’t look guilty. If anything, he looked concentrated, like someone who’d just worked through a difficult geometry problem.
“I was busy, Sveta. Taking care of things,” he said, slipping off his shoes and avoiding her eyes. “What is it—did something catch fire?”
“Yes. It did,” she said. “The MedGarant clinic called. The administrator, Olga. She was apologizing like crazy. Asking why we suddenly decided not to go through with surgery tomorrow, when the surgeon cleared time specifically for me.”
Sasha went still. Slowly he straightened, scratched the back of his head, and finally turned toward his wife. There was weary irritation in his gaze—as if he’d been caught not doing something unforgivable, but forgetting to buy bread.
“I was going to tell you tonight. Over dinner. Calmly. So you wouldn’t start hysterics ahead of time.”
Sveta felt the dull, gnawing pain in her knee begin to throb again. It rolled in waves from her thigh down to her heel, turning her leg into something чужое—an alien, wooden stump packed with nails.
“Hysterics?” she repeated, gripping her phone so tightly her knuckles bleached white. **“I’ve been walking with a cane for a year. A year. I’ve been swallowing Nimesil by the box—my stomach is basically a sieve. I saved every bonus, every side job. Tomorrow at eight a.m. I was supposed to be on an operating table.” Her voice sharpened. “And now they’re telling me the appointment was canceled and the refund was sent back to the payer’s card. Your card, Sasha. Where are the two hundred and fifty thousand?”
Her husband sighed, walked past her into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and pulled out a bottle of beer. The cap clinked against the corner of the table.
“With Lyokha,” he said simply, taking a swallow. “Lyokha’s in total hell right now, Sveta. You have no idea. They’re squeezing him hard—creditors, some shady guys in SUVs. They gave him until tonight. Otherwise they’ll bury him for real or beat him half to death. I couldn’t leave him. We’ve been together since first grade.”
Sveta limped after him. Every step sent a sharp bolt into her lower back. She watched her husband drink beer in their kitchen and didn’t recognize him. He looked like a stranger—some other man with dead, fish-like eyes.
“So,” she said slowly, placing each word like a weight, “you took the money we were saving for my surgery and handed it to Lyosha so he could cover debts from his stupid little business flipping cars?”
“Not stupid—he just got unlucky,” Sasha snapped. “And I didn’t ‘hand’ it to him. I loaned it. He’ll pay it back. He’ll get rolling again and he’ll return it.”
“When?” Sveta grabbed the back of a chair so she wouldn’t fall. Her legs trembled, not from pain, but from fury. “In a year? In five? And what am I supposed to do in the meantime? The surgeon said the joint is deteriorating. Another six months and the replacement will be twice as complicated. Do you understand I can’t walk? I can’t even make it to the toilet without crying.”
Sasha winced, like he had a toothache. He clearly didn’t want this conversation. In his mind, he’d acted like a real man—saved a friend. And his wife… his wife was simply selfish.
“Stop catastrophizing, Sveta. It’s not fatal. People wait years for government quotas and they live. You’ll manage another half year while Lyokha gets back on his feet. We’ll buy you some decent ointments, do injections. Why are you blowing this out of proportion?” He leaned into his own argument. “Someone could get killed there, you get that? A life is at stake. And you’ve just got a knee that aches. You’ll limp a little. You won’t fall apart.”
That “you’ll limp a little” was the last straw.
Sveta looked at his calm, well-fed face—at the way he licked his lips after the beer—and something inside her snapped. As if the one last ligament still holding their marriage together finally tore.
She pulled in a breath, ignoring the white-hot pain in her joint, and her voice rang off the kitchen tiles—hard and frightening:
“You canceled my scheduled knee surgery and took the deposit back from the clinic to give that money to your friend who ruined his business?! You decided I can keep limping and living on painkillers for your buddy?! You’re not human—you’re a monster! Pack your things and get out—go to your friend. Let him treat your knees when I break them!”
“Why are you screaming?” Sasha set the bottle down; red blotches spread across his face. “Trying to scare the neighbors? Have you lost your mind with your ‘illnesses’? I’m your husband, not your ATM! I decided it was more important to help my friend right now. That’s a man’s decision. And you’re acting like a hysteric.”
“I’m acting like a disabled woman who got robbed by her own husband!” Sveta roared. “You stole my health, Sasha. You stole my ability to live normally. You put my legs below Lyokha’s debts.”
“Lyokha’s like a brother to me!” Sasha slammed his palm on the table. “You’d do the same if your friend was being threatened!”
Sveta stepped closer, twisted with pain but terrifyingly steady.
“If I were you,” she hissed, “I would never reach into the pocket of a sick person. Out of my home. Now.”
“Not a chance,” Sasha said, crossing his arms and leaning back with open defiance. “The apartment is shared. And the money was shared too. I have every right to manage our budget in a crisis. Calm down, take some valerian, and go to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow when you’ve cooled off.”
He reached for the bottle again, making it clear the audience was over. In his mind, the situation was settled: the money was with Lyokha, Sveta would yell and then quiet down, the knee could wait. Just another Tuesday.
But Sveta didn’t go for valerian.
She turned, nearly losing her balance, and headed for the bedroom, her cane striking the floor like a sentence being read out. A plan had already formed in her head, and there was no room in it for sleep or sedatives.
“You’re selfish, Sveta. A full-on, self-absorbed egoist,” Sasha’s voice reached her from the bedroom. He didn’t stay behind with his beer—he followed. His wounded pride needed satisfaction. It wasn’t enough to rob her; he needed her to admit he was right.
Sveta sat on the edge of the bed, cradling her knee in her palms. The warmth of her hands dulled the ache a little—the heavy, drilling pain that became unbearable by evening, like someone slowly screwing a rusted bolt into the joint.
She lifted her eyes. Sasha stood in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, and there was so much smug condescension in his posture that nausea rose in her throat.
“I’m selfish?” she asked quietly. “Because I want to walk on two legs instead of crawling?”
“Because you can’t see past your own nose,” Sasha stepped into the room, gesturing with the bottle. “The guy has real problems. People came to him who don’t mess around. The meter’s running. And you? Your knee hurts a couple more months, you swallow your pills. People don’t die from that, Sveta. But Lyokha could’ve been dumped in the woods. So weigh it properly: a guy’s life or your comfort?”
“Comfort…” Sveta gave a bitter, humorless smile. “That’s what you call it? Sasha, I haven’t slept at night for a year. I calculate every step like a chess match so I don’t put weight on the leg. I work on painkillers—my liver is probably failing. And you call it ‘comfort’?”
“Oh, stop exaggerating,” he grimaced, like she was a fly buzzing near his ear. “You’ve always been too delicate. A little sting and it’s a global tragedy. My mother’s walked around with varicose veins her whole life—legs blue, knotted—and she still digs the garden, jars vegetables, never says a word. And you act like some fragile crystal queen. You’ll endure. You won’t fall apart. For a holy cause you can grit your teeth.”
Sveta stared at him and felt an icy emptiness spread inside her. It was worse than yelling. He truly didn’t consider her pain important. To him, her suffering was background noise—an annoying squeaky door he couldn’t be bothered to oil.
“A holy cause?” she asked, her voice shaking. “Saving your buddy’s hide—the guy who’s blown money for the third time on pyramids and shady schemes—that’s a holy cause?”
“Don’t talk about Lyokha like that!” Sasha snapped, his face darkening. “We’ve been together since the sandbox. He helped me when I totaled my car, remember?”
“I remember,” Sveta nodded. “He gave you five thousand rubles. And you gave him two hundred and fifty. My two hundred and fifty, Sasha. Money I earned standing twelve-hour shifts at the print shop on a damaged leg. Do you even understand what you did? You crawled into my flesh. You ripped the joint out of my body and handed it to Lyokha so he could buy himself out of trouble.”
“We have a shared budget!” Sasha shouted, losing patience. “Family means everything goes into one pot. I’m the head of this family—I make strategic decisions. And the strategy right now is: we save the friend. Then we save up again for you. I’ll earn it, you hear me? Why are you sawing at me like a chainsaw? I told you—I’ll pay it back!”
He said it with the same certainty an alcoholic uses when he swears he’ll quit on Monday. Sveta knew the value of his promises. He wouldn’t earn it. He’d come home with another “brilliant idea,” drink away an advance, or simply forget.
“You won’t earn it, Sasha,” she said tiredly, looking straight through him. “You’ve never made that kind of money. I saved it. I refused myself everything. For a year I didn’t buy clothes, didn’t take a vacation, cut back even on food. And with one phone call you decided your reputation with the guys mattered more than my disability.”
“What reputation?” he scoffed, but his eyes flickered away.
“That reputation,” she said flatly. “You wanted Lyokha to say, ‘Sanya’s a real man—Sanya came through.’ You don’t care that your wife howls into a pillow from pain. All you care about is being respected in the garages. You bought their respect with my health.”
Sasha’s face flushed dark red. She had hit the nerve, and it made him furious. He stepped closer to the bed, looming over her—heavy, smelling of beer and stale breath.
“You’re just a petty woman,” he spat. “A miser. You begrudge money to someone in trouble. I thought you were kinder. Thought you’d understand. But all you think about is your knee. Who needs you like that—limping and nasty? Say thank you I even live with you, tolerate your whining. Another man would’ve run off long ago to someone young and healthy.”
The room fell silent—thick and sticky, like swamp mud.
Sveta rose slowly from the bed. Pain stabbed through her leg like a red-hot spike, but she didn’t flinch. His words worked better than any anesthetic: they killed every feeling, leaving only cold, crystalline clarity.
This wasn’t her husband standing there. This was a parasite that had fed for years on her resources, her care—only to decide, when she finally needed help, to throw what was left of her to his ego. He hadn’t just betrayed her. He had declared her pain “normal,” and her money his property.
“Thank you for opening my eyes, Sasha,” she said quietly. “You’re right. I really did get fixated. I thought we were a family. Turns out I’m just the sponsor of your loser club.”
She turned to the wardrobe. Her movements were sharp, jerky, but sure. Her gaze landed on the big travel suitcase gathering dust on the top shelf.
“What are you planning?” Sasha asked warily, seeing the change in her face. “Going to your mom’s? Fine—go. Sit there and think about your behavior. Maybe your conscience will finally wake up.”
“No, Sasha.” Grinding her teeth, Sveta dragged the suitcase down. It hit the floor with a heavy thud. “I’m staying home. This is my apartment—it came from my grandmother, in case you forgot. And you’re only registered here temporarily.”
She unzipped the suitcase. Its dark interior yawned open like the mouth of a hungry animal.
“You… you’re throwing me out?” Sasha blinked, a stupid, bewildered smile tugging at his face. “Over money? Seriously? Sveta, don’t be ridiculous. Where am I supposed to go at this hour?”
“To Lyokha,” she cut him off. “He’s ‘like a brother,’ right? Then go be one big happy family together. Let him repay you in kind—with a roof and food.”
Sveta left the bedroom without even taking her cane. Rage held her upright better than any support ever had. She headed to the kitchen, where the trash bin under the sink was overflowing—the one Sasha had “forgotten” to take out in the morning.
She entered the kitchen, dragging her injured leg like a cast-iron anchor. Every step crackled through her hip like an electric shock, but the physical torture only fueled her. She yanked open the cabinet under the sink. The plastic bin was packed to the brim—Sasha, as always, hadn’t bothered to take it out, just mashed an empty cigarette pack on top.
A thick, sour stench hit her: spoiled soup, coffee sludge, stale cigarette butts. To Sveta it smelled like the most honest thing in their apartment over the past day.
She jerked the blue trash bag out. The thin plastic stretched, threatening to split, but held. The bag was heavy, slick, and oddly warm. Through the polyethylene she could see brownish liquid pooling at the bottom.
Ignoring the murky drips splattering onto the laminate, she carried it back to the bedroom.
Sasha was still there, exactly where she’d left him. He’d finished his beer and was now twirling the empty bottle in his hands, looking at the open suitcase with bored superiority. When he saw her with the trash bag, he wrinkled his nose and snorted.
“You decided to clean at midnight? Or is this some ‘subtle hint’ that I’m a pig? Sveta, this is kindergarten nonsense. Put it down—it reeks.”
Sveta didn’t answer. She stepped right up to the suitcase. Her eyes were empty and terrifying—like a surgeon about to amputate. She lifted the bag over the black, velvety interior and, staring him straight in the eyes, flipped it over.
Thud.
The contents slumped inside with a wet, sucking sound. Potato peelings, greasy sausage wrappers, soggy tea leaves, empty tins—and those cigarette butts Sasha had smoked while deciding the fate of her knee. A filthy, stinking avalanche flooded the suitcase, smearing the lining.
Sasha went rigid. The bottle slipped from his hands and hit the carpet with a dull bounce, but he didn’t even flinch. His mouth fell open. His eyes bulged. He stared at the heap of slop in his suitcase as if his brain refused to accept the picture: his quiet, convenient Sveta had just dumped garbage into his belongings.
“You… what are you doing, you idiot?!” he screeched when his voice finally returned, cracking into a high whine. “That’s Samsonite! It costs money! You’ve completely lost it because of your leg!”
Sveta had already turned to the closet. She flung the doors open, revealing his clothes—the clothes she bought, washed, and ironed. The clothes that made him look respectable so his friends wouldn’t treat him like a failure.
She ripped an armful of shirts off their hangers—white, pale blue, checked. The fabric crisped pleasantly in her hands.
“No! Stop!” Sasha yelled, lunging for her. “Don’t you dare! Those are my shirts—I wear them to meetings!”
He was too late. Sveta hurled the neatly pressed shirts straight onto the garbage. One bright white collar immediately soaked up a puddle of beet salad dressing.
“Now you’ll wear that,” she said calmly. “So the outside matches the inside.”
Next came his jeans—heavy, branded, paid for with her New Year’s bonus. They landed like weights, crushing trash and shirts together into a layered cake of clothing and rot.
Sasha grabbed her wrist, squeezing hard. His face twisted with rage, nostrils flaring.
“You’re going to take all of that out right now,” he hissed, spittle flying. “You’re going to take it out, wash it, iron it—then crawl on your knees and beg my forgiveness. You ruined forty thousand rubles’ worth of clothes, you bitch!”
Sveta slowly looked down at his hand around her wrist. There was no fear in her eyes—only such cold disgust that Sasha involuntarily loosened his fingers.
“Forty thousand?” she repeated softly. “That’s nothing, Sasha. You ruined my life for two hundred and fifty. And you ruined my health—which doesn’t even have a price. So consider that I still owe you. But I’m generous. Debt forgiven.”
She shoved him away—unexpectedly hard for a woman who could barely stand. Sasha stumbled back and stepped on the empty beer bottle with his heel.
Sveta bent to the lower shelf. His sneakers were there—his pride. Limited edition. The pair he’d hunted for half a year, the pair he’d begged money from her for, insisting, “A man needs decent shoes.”
“Don’t touch the sneakers,” Sasha whispered, and real fear trembled in his voice. “Sveta, don’t. Please. I barely even wore them.”
“Give them to Lyokha,” she replied—and tossed them into the suitcase.
One shoe jammed toe-first into a greasy tin can; the other tangled in the sleeve of a filthy shirt. The scene was complete: an installation of their marriage collapsing—expensive posing mixed with cheap household filth.
Sveta bent, fighting pain that now felt distant and irrelevant, and slammed the suitcase shut. The lock clicked, but the zipper wouldn’t meet—the trash and crumpled clothing were too bulky.
“Sit down,” she ordered.
“What?” Sasha asked dumbly.
“Sit on it so it closes. Like you always do. You’ve ridden on me for years—now sit on your own mess.”
Sasha stood frozen, staring at the bloated suitcase with a strip of plastic bag sticking out of the gap. He understood something irreversible was happening, but his small, cowardly nature still hoped it was just a “woman’s tantrum,” that she’d scream, cry, and then start pulling everything back out.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said stubbornly, crossing his arms. “This is my home. I live here. And if you want to live in a pigsty, live in it. I’m going to sleep. Right here.”
He made a show of stepping to the bed and sitting down, as if to declare the performance over.
Sveta looked at him, then at the suitcase, then at her cane leaning against the wall. She picked it up. Heavy. Solid. The handle fit her palm.
“You still don’t understand, Sasha,” she said, and there was steel in her voice. “You don’t live here anymore. Consider yourself crossed off. Reason for removal: unfit for the position of ‘human being.’ And if you don’t take that pile of shit and leave on your own, I’ll help you move faster.”
She raised the cane not as support—but as a weapon. For the first time in a year, that stick wasn’t for walking. It was for driving an infection out of her home.
She didn’t wait for him to stand up. She bent, grabbed the suitcase handle, and yanked it toward herself. The zipper, which she hadn’t managed to close all the way, split open farther, and a wet tea bag slid out, slapping the carpet and leaving a brown stain. The suitcase was brutally heavy—clothes, trash, and hatred all multiplied into one dead weight—but Sveta moved as if she couldn’t feel it.
“Are you serious?” Sasha sprang off the bed, finally realizing she wasn’t bluffing. Animal fear flashed in his eyes. “Sveta, come on! Okay, I went too far—fine! Let’s talk! You can’t drag this garbage outside!”
“I can drag this garbage exactly where it belongs,” she rasped, hauling the suitcase over the laminate. The wheels squealed miserably, leaving a faint wet track behind.
Sveta moved toward the door, favoring her injured leg. The pain in her knee had become one continuous hum—white noise that drowned everything else out. She was like a tank with a blown track: slow, but unstoppable. Sasha trotted beside her, trying to grab the suitcase, but every time he reached for it he met the warning swing of her cane.
“Put the stick down!” he shrieked, jerking back as the rubber tip whistled an inch from his nose. “You’ll put my eye out! You want a criminal case?!”
“I want you gone,” Sveta said as she reached the entryway.
She kicked the front door open. The lock clicked, and cold stairwell air rushed into the apartment, cutting through the stench of the fight. The landing was dark and quiet; somewhere below, a weak bulb buzzed.
“Sveta, it’s the middle of the night!” Sasha planted his hands on the doorframe, blocking the way. His face warped, lips trembling. All his swagger had fallen off, leaving a naked, frightened little man. “Where am I supposed to go? I don’t even have my phone charger! My card is empty!”
“You have Lyokha,” she reminded him, breathing hard. Sweat ran down her back; her leg burned. “You’ve got your ‘brother.’ Go to him. Let him feed you, house you, tuck you in. You put your wife on crutches for him—so go demand compensation.”
“He won’t answer!” Sasha blurted out. “He’s hiding—he’s at rock bottom! Sveta, don’t do this. Let me at least sleep here tonight! Tomorrow I’ll go, I swear! I’ll wash the clothes—I’ll fix everything!”
“You already fixed everything,” Sveta said, shifting her grip on the cane like a bat. “My knee. For six more months.”
She saw exactly what she expected in his eyes: a lie. He wouldn’t leave tomorrow. He’d wake up, act remorseful, fry eggs, push guilt and pity until she broke again. He was a parasite latched onto her. And you had to rip a parasite out with flesh.
“Out!” she barked—and drove the cane hard into his chest.
The blow was sharp and brutal. Sasha gasped, lost his balance, and stumbled backward over the threshold onto the grimy concrete of the landing. He flailed to catch himself, but Sveta didn’t give him time.
She shoved the heavy suitcase after him. It flew into the stairwell, knocked its wheel on the threshold, tipped, and crashed at his feet. The zipper split completely.
The contents spilled out like the guts of a butchered animal—clothes tangled with household rot. Sasha’s favorite pale-blue shirt landed in a puddle of coffee sludge. Potato skins stuck to his jeans. One precious sneaker rolled toward the trash chute as if it recognized its own kind.
Sasha stood in the middle of the mess, staring at his things with horror and disgust.
“You… you’re a monster…” he whispered, lifting a hate-filled gaze to her. “How could you? Those are things! They cost money! You’re a woman—you’re supposed to preserve, not destroy!”
Sveta stood in the doorway, bracing herself on the frame. It hurt—physically, unbearably—but inside she felt clean and empty, like she’d finally cut out an abscess that had been poisoning her for years.
“I’m supposed to owe only myself, Sasha,” she said quietly. “I owe myself a life without pain. And you…” she nodded at the pile of rags and scraps. “You belong right there. In the trash. Pick up your junk and go to your friend. And if you ever show up here again, I’ll make sure you need someone to ‘treat your knees’ for real.”
“I’ll sue you! I’ll force a swap of this apartment! I’ll ruin your life!” Sasha screamed, clawing for his jacket under the heap. His voice echoed through the stairwell, waking a dog somewhere above.
“Try,” Sveta said evenly. “Just remember—you don’t even have money for a bus, let alone a lawyer. And I have anger. And believe me, Sasha, my anger is worth more right now than your friendship.”
She looked at him one last time—at his twisted face, at the filthy hands scraping potato peelings off his pants. He was pathetic. And he was чужой—completely чужой. A stranger who had wandered into her life and left dirt everywhere.
Sveta pulled the door toward her.
“Sveta, stop! You’ll regret it! You’ll die alone!” he screamed, lunging for the door—but it was too late.
The heavy metal door slammed shut with a clang, cutting her off from his shouting, from the stink of garbage, from the past. Sveta turned the night bolts twice.
Click. Click.
The sound was dry and final—like a point-blank shot.
Silence settled inside the apartment. Not dramatic, not ringing—just the quiet of an empty home where no one needed to be served anymore. Sveta slid down the door onto the floor, stretching out her bad leg. Her knee pulsed, demanding ice and rest.
Tomorrow would be hard. Tomorrow would hurt. There would be no surgery, and the money was gone. But she knew one thing for sure: she had just removed the worst parasite from her life.
And she would manage the rest.
She took her phone and blocked her husband’s number.
Now it was truly over.