Emily woke up in agony. Something important had been haunting her dreams just before she woke, but the pain swallowed the memory whole. Her stomach ached like never before, the pain radiating to her lower back.
She lay still, waiting for it to fade. When it dulled slightly, she tried sitting up, but the moment she shifted, the pain lanced through her again. A cry escaped her as she slid onto the floor, crawling on hands and knees to the dresser where her phone was charging.
She called 999 from the floor, propped up on one hand, forcing herself to stay calm. “The ambulance will be here soon,” she muttered. “But the door—I have to unlock the door!” She dragged herself to the hallway, the pain throbbing, her stomach burning. Every attempt to stand sent fresh waves of agony through her. Tears welled up. This was the true horror of being alone—not the lack of someone to fetch water, but the sheer terror of being unable to open the door for help. Biting her lip hard enough to draw blood, she managed to twist the latch before collapsing into darkness.
Fragments of voices reached her through the haze—questions, murmurs. She might’ve answered. Or imagined she had.
When she came to, the low autumn sun blazed through the hospital window. She winced, turning away, and the movement sent a sharp twinge beneath her ribs. Her stomach felt swollen, tender, but the worst of the pain was gone.
Not long ago, she’d convinced herself that death would be kinder than this life—no husband, no children, no one at all. What was the point? But in that moment of crisis, she’d clawed for survival, terrified of dying sudden and alone.
“Awake?” a voice said. “I’ll fetch a nurse.”
Emily turned to see her roommate—a plump, middle-aged woman in a flowery flannel dressing gown.
Soon, a nurse entered.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, her cheeks rosy under her pale blue cap.
“Fine,” Emily said. “What happened?”
“The doctor will explain,” the nurse replied, then left, her waist-length blonde braid swinging behind her.
“You’re in gynae,” the roommate said. “Brought in two hours ago. You were out cold, love.”
Love. Lately, she’d only been called ‘madam’ or ‘missus’ in shops and buses, making her feel ancient. Forty-two wasn’t old, but she’d convinced herself it was too late—for love, for life. That’s why she kept pushing James away, only to take him back every time.
“How are you?” A doctor in his fifties strode in.
“What happened? Was I operated on? I feel like I’ve swallowed a balloon.”
“Mrs. Thompson, they need you in dressing room,” the doctor told the roommate.
Once she left, Emily met the doctor’s tired gaze gratefully.
“You had a laparotomy. Ruptured ectopic pregnancy.”
“What?” She nearly bolted upright, pain flaring.
“What’s the surprise?”
“I was told I couldn’t conceive.”
“That doesn’t rule out ectopic—or even natural pregnancy. Life’s full of surprises. You’ll stay a few days.”
“Can I get up?”
“Carefully.”
Alone again, Emily wrestled with the news. They’d said she was infertile. Her husband had left over it—well, used it as excuse for his affairs. Could she really be pregnant? But at forty-two? Too late now.
She swung her legs over the bed, spotting her slippers and dressing gown—likely brought by paramedics. The pain was dull, muscles sore.
Digging in the gown pocket, she found her keys and passport. The door must’ve been locked.
No mirror above the sink. She smoothed her hair and shuffled into the corridor, heading for the doctor’s office. Locked. She turned toward the nurses’ station but stumbled, nausea rising. She sank onto a bench, dizzy.
Would James have cared if he knew she could’ve had his child? They’d met five years ago—he’d admitted he was married from the start. A late father. She’d sworn off him a hundred times, but he always returned.
Voices cut through her thoughts.
“Can you believe it? During surgery, Dr. Carter found a tumour. Massive.”
Emily recognised the rosy-cheeked nurse.
“And?” another voice asked.
“Nothing they could do. Stitched her up, that’s it. Carter said it’s terminal. They’ll move Walker to oncology tomorrow. So young, too.”
“Poor thing.”
Emily stopped breathing. Walker—that was her. They were talking about her. The words pounded in her skull—terminal, oncology, not much time left. Trembling, she staggered back to her room, tears choking her.
When her roommate returned, Emily turned away.
“You crying? Need someone?”
“No.” She fled to the corridor, then downstairs. The day was warm, the sun bright. Patients strolled the hospital gardens. No one glanced at her.
No. She wouldn’t go to oncology, wouldn’t rot away like her mother. Thirty rounds of chemo, wasted.
She walked out. No belongings—just keys and passport in her pocket. She’d die at home, at least with hair.
Passers-by eyed her hospital gown, but she didn’t care. Not anymore.
At home, she scrubbed off the hospital smell, brewed strong tea. Her stomach ached, but bearably.
She cycled between tears and numbness. What had her life been? Who’d bury her? James might remember—until she blocked his number.
Three days passed. She woke feeling… fine. Rested. The mirror showed no yellow tinge, no wasting. Just her usual thin frame—divorce, grief, James.
She unblocked his number but wouldn’t open the door.
The flat needed tidying. A will, leaving everything to Mum’s cousin, not strangers. She booked a solicitor. No fortune—just a wedding ring and gold earrings. No mink coat, like she’d always dreamed.
With odd satisfaction, she made scrambled eggs, eating hungrily.
That night, Mum visited her dreams—stern as ever. “Mum! How are—”
“You, though…”
“What’d I do wrong?” She woke screaming, heart pounding.
Mum had looked like that when she’d skipped school for cinema at fourteen, caught by a family friend.
Now, what was wrong? The grave? They said the dead nudged you when neglected.
Next day, she took the bus past the hospital. On impulse, she got off.
“Mrs. Walker!” Dr. Carter stormed over. “Running off? Reckless. Open wound, risk of infection—”
“I’m fine.”
“Come.”
She balked. “I won’t go to oncology.”
“What? You’re perfectly—”
“I heard the nurses. Terminal. Walker. That’s me!”
He frowned. “Which nurse?”
“The one at the desk. I was coming to ask—never mind. She said Walker’s Stage IV, being moved—”
“Wait here.”
He returned with two files.
Both read Walker—Emily Anne and Winifred Claire. Same surname, different first names, ages.
“Rare, but it happens,” he said. “Once had two patients, same name, same street.”
“So… I’m fine?”
“Well, I did take a tube,” he teased.
She threw her arms around him, sobbing.
“Relief, I hope?” He handed her water. “Maybe a wake-up call. Change what needs changing.”
She nodded fiercely.
“Don’t punish the nurses.”
Outside, she smiled into the drizzling rain.
Home, she cleaned frantically, singing. The will, the despair—all a bad dream.
That evening, James knocked.
“Why’d you block me?”
She laughed. “Oh—forgot to unblock you.”
His suitcase sat at his feet.
“I left her.”
“Why now?”
“Couldn’t split myself anymore. Can’t live without you.”
“Neither can I.” She hugged him.
“Guess what?” they said in unison, laughing.
