**The Dark Streak**
Like any girl her age, Emily had dreams—finishing school, studying medicine, finding a love that would last a lifetime. Who doesn’t dream of those things at seventeen? But not everyone gets to live them. Why? If only she knew.
Her mum, Sarah, raised her alone. Just like Emily, Sarah had once dreamed of a fairytale romance. She fell for a handsome bloke, thinking she’d found happiness—until she realised he was a gambler. Luck rarely favoured him, and when it did, it only fed his addiction. More often, he lost big—money, loans, digging himself deeper into debt.
Desperate to pay off what he owed, he got tangled up with criminals. His first job went wrong, landing him in prison—where he either died by his own hand or someone else’s. One day, two bald, rough-looking men turned up at Sarah’s door. They said the debt was hers now. Threats followed. What could she do? She handed over the flat with everything in it, grabbed two-year-old Emily, and ran, no plan, no destination. Maybe the thugs figured they’d squeezed all they could from her, or maybe the flat covered most of the debt. Either way, they left her alone after that.
Sarah and Emily ended up in a tiny village near Bristol. Hoping the countryside would be kinder, she rented a room from an elderly Welshman who owned a cottage. He didn’t charge rent—just asked for help around the house and garden. His wife had passed two years before, and his grown kids lived elsewhere.
Sarah agreed. She cleaned, cooked, tended the garden. The old man sold his produce at the market, scraping by. On good days, he’d slip her a few quid for clothes, or even buy gifts himself. Sarah knew where this was headed. So when he asked her to marry him, she wasn’t shocked. He was short, balding, with a belly and twice her age. She didn’t love him, but what choice did she have? Nowhere to run.
He promised the house and land would be hers when he died. So she said yes. Those years with him were joyless, an eternity—but survival isn’t about choices.
When he passed, Sarah finally breathed. At last, she was free, mistress of her own home. What more could she want?
Emily grew up stunning—olive skin, grey eyes, full lips, dark curly hair, a figure to turn heads. She had lads and grown men alike chasing after her. How could Sarah not worry?
She raised Emily strict, terrified she’d repeat her mistakes. “Don’t chase looks in a man,” she’d say. “Look for steadiness, someone who can provide.”
*With your beauty, you hold all the cards.*
(Her past with the gambler left scars.)
Every day, she warned Emily about holiday flings. *They’ll use you, leave, and you’ll be alone—God forbid with a baby.* But what seventeen-year-old listens?
Then a uni student from London came to visit family. Saw Emily and lost his mind. Turned up at Sarah’s door, proposing. Bragged about a big house, a family business waiting for him when his dad retired.
Sarah wasn’t daft. She didn’t buy the boasting.
“You want to marry her? Fine. Emily’s still in school. Come back in a year, and we’ll talk. Till then, keep your hands to yourself.”
Secretly, she was thrilled. If it was true, if the lad’s love held, Emily would want for nothing.
Smitten, he agreed. Went back to London, wrote, called. Visited at Christmas. He’d graduate soon, start working with his dad, learn the ropes—be able to support a family.
Emily waited, loyal. A year later, he returned—with his parents. They took one look at her and saw a pretty girl, but not their son’s equal. Still, if he insisted, they’d allow it. At least she was beautiful enough to show off. London would smooth out her edges. Time would tell.
The wedding was lavish. Sarah was overjoyed. Her only request before they left? *Don’t rush into kids.*
The newlyweds were happy, in love. Emily applied to med school…
Then his father noticed her. The way he looked at her made her want to shrink into nothing.
One day, his mum called—their son needed to come home, she wasn’t well. James left straight away. That’s when his father knocked on their flat door. A sweltering August afternoon. Emily, in shorts and a vest, answered, thinking it was James.
The moment he saw her, he lost control. She never stood a chance against a man that size. No one would hear her scream—neighbours were out, at work or on holiday. Even if they heard, they wouldn’t interfere. Everyone knew who’d bought the flat.
Near the sofa, where he pinned her, stood a heavy vase. If she could just reach it… He was too lost in his frenzy to notice. She grabbed it, swung—
She barely wriggled free from his limp body. Blood pooled from his head. Terrified, she called an ambulance. By the time James returned, his father was in hospital, and Emily was being questioned.
She told the truth. Who’d believe her? The investigator twisted it—said she’d provoked him, planned it all along. With his father dead, the business would go to James. Why not speed things up?
Four years in prison. A week later, word came—her mum had died. Heart failure. The Welshman’s eldest daughter sold the house fast. Didn’t need it, and a convict sure as hell wasn’t getting it.
Prison was hell for someone like Emily. She knew she wouldn’t survive. Suicide wasn’t an option—her body clung to life. Then she found a woman with scissors. For a fee, she’d trim hair or nails. Emily had no money, but promised to pay later. When no one was looking, she mutilated her own face—stabbed her cheek.
The prison doctor stitched it. The wound festered, leaving an ugly scar. Now, no one looked twice. She hid her figure under baggy uniforms.
She worked hard, kept her head down. When her sentence ended, where could she go? James divorced her after the trial. Mum was dead, the house sold. No other family.
At release, they asked where she’d go. “I have distant relatives in Manchester,” she lied. Mum had once mentioned a trip there with her dad. Why not try?
She didn’t stay. A big city with a record? No chance. Now the scar worked against her—but no fixing it.
She got off the train at a tiny station at dusk. No money, no leads. Too cold to sleep outside. She wandered, breathing freedom, when a beat-up old Ford pulled over. She tensed—then the window rolled down. A man with a ginger beard leaned out.
“You new here? Need a place to stay?”
Before she could answer, he stepped out. The black cassock cleared things up—a vicar. Instinctively, she tucked hair over her scar.
“Just out?” he asked.
“How’d you guess?”
“Doesn’t take guessing. You all crave sunlight, and your eyes give you away. Don’t worry. I can show you a B&B. Or… I’ve got a better offer.”
She stiffened.
“I live with my wife and kids. Our eldest is off at uni—room’s free. Stay, get your bearings. No rent. Just help my wife. Fancy it?”
No choice. She agreed. On the drive, she confessed why she’d been inside.
“You do that to yourself?” he asked, nodding at her cheek.
“Yeah.”
He didn’t press. Soon, they stopped at a low fence.
“Here we are.”
His wife, Mary, welcomed her, asked no questions. The kids showed her their sister’s room, eyeing the scar but staying quiet.
Later, Emily told them everything. Mary fought tears; the vicar said suffering paved the way to heaven. For the first time in years, Emily slept soundly.
She stayed with them, helped Mary, tutored their youngest, Alice. Sundays, she joined the vicar at church, even sang in the choir sometimes. Slowly, the past faded.
When the vicar learned she’d wanted to be a doctor, he promised to call a friend at Manchester Uni.
“They won’t take me. I’m an ex-con,” she said.
“You got your A-levels?”
“Yeah, but my papers were with James. Probably binned them.”
“Give me time. I’ll ask. Or have you given up already?”
“Why help me? You don’t even know me.”
“Try trusting again. We’re all brothers and sisters here.”
“How can I repay you?”
Mary hugged her. “Just pass it on. Help someone else, no strings. That’s payment enough.”
A year passed. Emily’s heart thawed. She stopped flinching at noises, learned to hope. Her documents turned up—the med school in London still had them. She got into Manchester. WeekAnd as she stood on the train platform, watching the sun rise over Manchester, she finally understood—the darkest streaks in life often lead to the brightest light.
