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?
