It was raining again outside. It had been pouring for several days now, making everything around me feel gray and sticky. I sat in the kitchen, mechanically stirring my long-cold tea and thinking of anything to escape that nagging unease.

The doorbell rang unexpectedly. The cat twitched and jumped off the windowsill. I immediately tensed. No one comes to me at this hour without a reason.

I looked through the peephole and froze. Emma was standing on the landing. My sister. Her hair was wet, her raincoat thrown hastily over her housedress, her face pale. Even through the cloudy glass, it was clear something bad had happened.

I opened the door. When she stepped into the apartment, the light fell on her face, and my stomach sank. One eye was barely open, a dark bruise spreading around it. There was a fresh cut on her cheek, and her lips were cracked. She was trying to hold on, but it was difficult.

I helped her take off her coat and only then noticed her hands. Her wrists were bruised, as if someone had squeezed them and wouldn’t let go. An all-too-familiar sight.

“Is that him?” I asked quietly. “Your husband?”
Emma looked at me. There was weariness and pain in her gaze, a look that made me want to turn away. We were twins, and I knew that face all too well. Seeing it like that was especially hard.

We had always been almost identical. With age, small differences had appeared, but to strangers, we were still like reflections in a mirror. People confused us in stores, on the street; even old acquaintances sometimes made mistakes.

And that’s when a thought popped into my head that made me feel uneasy. Dangerous, wrong, but surprisingly clear.

What if we switch places? What if I’m in his place? What if this time her husband faces not a frightened woman, but someone who isn’t afraid of him at all?

I looked at Emma and realized she was thinking the same thing. The decision was made without further ado.

I arrived at her house as if I were my sister. I acted calm and quiet, just like she always did. But inside, everything was different. I wasn’t afraid anymore. My sister’s husband sensed it almost immediately.

At first, he simply stared longer than usual, as if trying to figure out what was wrong. Then he started picking at details. She’d placed the mug wrong. She’d answered wrong. She’d used the wrong tone.

“Have you completely lost your nerve?” he asked sharply.

I remained silent and looked him in the eye. Emma used to look down at moments like this. I didn’t.

This infuriated him. He started yelling, pacing the room, waving his arms. He grew increasingly angry, as if he didn’t understand why. And then he did what he always did.

He raised his hand.
And at that moment, I suddenly remembered everything: that I was a former mixed martial arts champion, that I had many medals.

I didn’t even think when I remembered the old trick. One sharp step. One choke hold.

A couple of seconds later, my sister’s husband was already lying on the floor, gasping for breath. His eyes bulged, his face pale. He started pounding his palm on the floor and wheezing, begging for him to stop.

I leaned toward him and said quietly,

“Take that, you bastard. If you come near my sister and touch her again, our fight will continue. And believe me, I’ll be the winner. And you won’t get away with just bruises.”

I let him go and left the room.

A few days later, Emma filed for divorce and left her husband for good. He never approached her again.