Lila had quarreled with her husband and walked out.
The winter dusk was gathering. The frost wasn’t brutal — five degrees below at most — but it still pinched her cheeks and forehead. She trudged alone down the forest road, not afraid in the least — only furious.
Alex had hurt her deeply. You don’t treat someone you love like that. Just because a man is stronger doesn’t mean she has to obey. No, that’s all wrong. Lila wasn’t some rag he’d picked up from the street. She’d been a good wife — or at least tried to be — and Alex had never appreciated it. Nothing was ever enough for him. He saw no boundaries, never recognized Lila as a person with her own character, desires, quirks, her own way of seeing life.
Ah, how blind and selfish some men are! They hunt for wives the way predators stalk prey — baiting the trap, luring the unsuspecting creature into their field. Then they smother her in tenderness, circling closer, the noose tightening around her slender neck. And there she is — another little “Bambi,” crunching her salad while the iron jaws close. Caught. In the pen.
The hunter doesn’t care about her opinion; he’s the boss of the house. Sit quietly in your corner and don’t squeak.
Maybe somewhere there were different men, but Lila’s fate was Alex. He’d been so gentle, so considerate when courting her — bringing flowers, slipping rings onto her fingers, fussing that she not wet her feet or catch a chill. He was tall, strong, and that very strength had drawn her — small, round-faced, pink-cheeked like a ripe apple. She had grown tired of loneliness. She wanted someone’s care, someone’s arms instead of her own independence. And so she’d stepped into the trap — and there was no getting out.
Right after the wedding, Alex had whisked her away to his “forest kingdom.”
A neat log house stood by a round lake with crystal-clear water, ringed with pine trees.
Lila had liked the quiet — the only sounds were birdsong and the wind in the branches. She hung bird feeders around the yard and planted flowers for spring. Alex taught her to stoke the stove, to simmer gray cabbage soup, and to make sweet Guryev porridge. Lila had never liked any of it — her tastes were more delicate, more urban — but she adjusted, gave in, forgot her little pleasures.
He would leave for work, sometimes for days, and she stayed alone. In the city, their apartment sat abandoned, the big bathtub hadn’t seen foam in months, their bed lay cold and empty, paintings gathered dust, and her favorite Paris perfume was fading, forgotten by its mistress.
“Darling, I’m bored here. I want to go to the city for a week,” she’d say, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders.
“I don’t see what’s boring,” Alex would frown. “There’s plenty to do here. When I come home, I’m starving — and you just lie around all day.”
“I just like to nap in the afternoon,” she’d purr.
“And I like to sleep at night! I work like a dog! I want to come home to a clean house and dinner on the table! I want a proper wife, not a doll in a robe! Look at this dust, the chill in here — what is this? You wander around at night, and in the morning you can’t wake up to make me breakfast!” Alex was stern, humorless.
“But … Alex, I’m a night owl. I’m not used to country life. I don’t like it here,” Lila murmured, apologetic.
“You’re my wife, and you’ll live by my rules, understood? Get used to it — and don’t make me angry!”
That was the moment Lila realized nothing good would come of this marriage.
She couldn’t stand pressure. She’d never bowed to anyone. Reason told her to end it, but her body — that treacherous, remembering body — still craved his touch, the wild nights they’d shared.
Pleasure has a price. She paid with her freedom, her hobbies, her pride.
After a year of marriage, she’d grown thin and pale. The color had drained from her cheeks, her hair lost its shine, her eyes their sparkle. The food Alex loved made her stomach rebel, and the pine air brought her no peace. And the constant quarrels wore her down.
That evening it all exploded. She’d mentioned a trip to the city — and that lit the fuse.
Alex was already in a foul mood; her whining just fueled the fire. No, he wasn’t a tyrant or a brute, just a man raised in a world where women obeyed: they kept house, didn’t argue, and certainly didn’t “run off” for a week. Husband and wife were one flesh — so he believed — each with their duties. Hadn’t he taken care of her? And still she sulked, still yearned for freedom.
Their nerves snapped. The words turned to shouts, the shouts to insults.
To avoid worse, Alex stormed upstairs and turned on the news.
Lila threw on her fur coat, grabbed her purse, and slipped quietly out the door.
Enough of this little family game.
Time to go — to the city, to people, to life! She’d always loved company, laughter, lights.
Just thirty kilometers — she could walk. It wasn’t scary. Maybe someone would give her a lift — a fisherman, a local — they often drove to the lake even in the evening. The road was clean, the night calm. Walk and think.
***
She had walked perhaps three miles when a little car pulled over beside her — an old hatchback, towing a small trailer.
The door swung open, and inside she saw an elderly man who looked like Santa Claus himself. His round red face was framed by a short, curly white beard, and a pair of fluffy mustaches half-hid a bright, friendly smile.
“Sweetheart, have you lost your mind? Walking out here all alone at night?”
he exclaimed.
“I quarreled with my husband and left,” Lila said with a shrug.
“Could you give me a ride?”
“Ah, these men nowadays!” he sighed.
“Climb in, my dear — before you freeze solid.”
The warmth inside the car felt heavenly. It smelled faintly of pine and old upholstery.
A plastic devil doll dangled from the rear-view mirror, bouncing merrily as they drove off.
“So, sir,” Lila said playfully, “where are you headed this late?”
“To my friend’s place — my godbrother’s,” he said cheerfully.
“He’s got a few lambs for me. I keep a little farm back in Spirovo — chickens, pigs, sheep… I’ll stay the night with him, have a bit of wine, pick up a lamb in the morning, and drive back.”
From somewhere under the seat he pulled out a thermos.
“Here, warm yourself up. My own herbal tea — it’ll put color in your cheeks. You need honey, really, but I left that with my friend.”
Lila unscrewed the cap. The scent was wonderful — jasmine, oregano, and something else she didn’t recognize, light and fruity. She took a sip, feeling the heat spread through her chest.
“And where does your friend live? I need to get to the city,” she said lazily.
“Don’t you worry, my dear. He lives past the city — I’ll get you there safe and sound,” he replied, his voice calm and reassuring.
The road hummed softly under the wheels. The tea was delicious. Too delicious.
Warmth turned into drowsiness. Her eyelids grew heavy, her tongue thick.
A strange thought pierced the haze:
“Sir… how are you planning to carry your lambs? It’s winter…”
Her words slurred; her fingers went numb. The thermos slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor.
“Same way I’ll carry you, little lamb,” the old man murmured somewhere far away.
And then came darkness — thick, velvety, endless.
When she woke, it was cold.
Her right wrist was chained to a wooden beam. Her mouth was stuffed with a filthy rag.
She blinked in the harsh light and realized she was in a basement. Whitewashed concrete walls. A bare bulb overhead. On the shelves — jars of pickles and jam. In one corner, crates of potatoes.
And on the opposite wall — axes, saws, knives, cleavers. Dozens of them, shining under the bulb.
Strange. People usually keep tools like that in a shed, not beside their preserves.
She was very thirsty.
Next to her stood a metal trough — empty, but stained with a brownish crust that smelled faintly of copper. She stared at it. Is it? …
A floorboard creaked.
The trapdoor above opened, and a pair of legs in wool socks and cut-off felt boots appeared on the stairs.
Down came the old man — the same jolly face, the same rosy cheeks, looking like some fairy-tale forest spirit.
“Well now, my lost little lamb,” he said kindly.
“Cold? Don’t worry, it’ll be over soon.”
He pulled the rag from her mouth.
“Go on, scream if you like,” he added almost politely.
“No one will hear. I only gagged you so I could rest after the drive.”
“What are you doing, you crazy old man?” Lila croaked.
“Doing? Oh, nothing much,” he said mildly.
“I used to be a convict, spent my life in the taiga. Ran with a gang back then… We did some bad things. Got used to certain tastes, you could say.
Had to eat what we could find — sometimes even people. Once you’ve tasted human flesh, you don’t forget. Don’t judge me, dove.
I saved you from wolves, you know — they were on your trail. You’d have been torn apart.
Don’t be mad — I had to burn your coat, it was too recognizable. I’ll hide your bones well.”
“Give me water, you monster!” Lila screamed, twisting her arm.
“No need for that,” he muttered, picking up a cleaver from the wall.
“Just a quick slice at the throat, the blood in the trough — neat and tidy.”
He turned toward her, smiling his white-toothed smile beneath the fluffy mustache.
The cleaver gleamed in his hand.
Lila smiled back.
She tugged lightly at her chained wrist — and the handcuff fell open, as if it had been made of plastic instead of steel.
Before the old man could even gasp, she yanked him close and sank her teeth into his wrinkled neck.
Finally, she could satisfy her hunger — that terrible hunger Alex had never known about.
When she was done, she washed her hands and face, leaving the old man sprawled on the floor with his neck twisted at an impossible angle. Then she climbed the stairs and stepped out into the dazzling white yard.
The world was peaceful again. Snow everywhere. A freshly shoveled path. The little car stood waiting, its trailer empty.
Lila got behind the wheel. The engine purred obediently.
She drove down the cleared road, humming softly.
Later that night, she was soaking in a bath filled with pink, fragrant foam.
At last — comfort, warmth, freedom.
No more husbands. No more obedience.
She loved being alone. Sleeping all day behind heavy curtains, walking the streets at night, searching for someone new — someone warm, someone careless.
Poor Alex — he’d thought he’d won.
He’d come running soon, no doubt, to fetch his “wayward wife.”
Let him try.
As the saying goes, never play with your food.
Lila tilted her beautiful fair head against the edge of the tub and sighed contentedly.
She had never felt happier.
Anna Lebedeva
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