**The Dark Streak**
Like any girl her age, Emily dreamed big. She planned to go to university after finishing school, become a doctor. She hoped for grand, lifelong love. Who doesn’t at seventeen? But dreams don’t always come true. Why? If only she knew.
Her mother, Sarah, raised her alone. Just like Emily, Sarah once dreamt of a prince—fell for a handsome man, thinking she’d found happiness. But he turned out to be a gambler. Luck rarely favoured him; small wins only fuelled his craving, while losses piled high. He borrowed, sank into debt, and eventually tangled with criminals to pay it off. Caught on his first job, he landed in prison, where he either died or was helped along. One day, two shaven-headed thugs showed up, told Sarah the debt was now hers. What choice did she have? She surrendered their flat, fled with two-year-old Emily, praying they’d let her go. Maybe the flat covered most of the debt. Either way, they never came after her again.
Sarah and Emily settled in a small town near Bristol. Hoping the milder south would provide, she rented a room from a Welshman in his cottage. He didn’t charge—just asked for help around the house and garden. His wife had died two years prior; grown children lived away with their own families. Sarah agreed. She cleaned, cooked, harvested, dug the garden—endless chores in a cottage with land. The Welshman sold produce at market, made a humble living. On good days, he gave Sarah a little money for clothes, sometimes buying gifts himself. She saw where it was heading. When he proposed, she wasn’t surprised. He was short, bald, with a round belly, twice her age. She didn’t fancy him, but what choice did she have? Promised her the cottage and land if he passed first. She agreed. Life with him was joyless; years felt like eternity, but she had no options.
When he died, Sarah breathed freely at last. Finally, her own mistress in her own home. What more could she want?
Emily grew up stunning—olive skin, grey eyes, full lips, dark curls, a figure to turn heads. Not just boys but grown men gawked. How could her mother not worry?
Sarah raised Emily strict, terrified she’d repeat her mistakes. “With looks like yours, you hold all the cards,” she’d say, drilling into her: “Choose reliability, not charm.” (Her gambler ex had left scars.)
Every day, she warned Emily about holiday flings. “They’ll use you, leave you, maybe even leave you with a child.” But what seventeen-year-old listens?
A student from London, visiting relatives, spotted Emily and lost his mind. He came to Sarah, boasting—a big house in London, his father’s business soon his. Sarah wasn’t foolish. “Marry her? Fine. Wait till she finishes school. Come back in a year. Until then, keep your hands off.” Secretly thrilled—if he meant it, Emily would live in comfort.
Smitten, the boy agreed. He left, wrote, called. Visited at New Year’s. Soon he’d graduate, work with his father, build a future. Emily waited, loyal. A year later, he returned with his parents. They saw her beauty but doubted she was right for their only son. Still, if love insisted, they’d allow it. A pretty bride impressed friends. London would polish her.
The wedding was lavish. Sarah rejoiced. “Don’t rush children,” she whispered before they left. The newlyweds were happy, in love. Emily applied to medical school…
Then his father fixated on her. His stares made her want to shrink to nothing.
One day, his mother called—ill, needing her son. Daniel rushed to her. His father knocked on their flat door. August heat meant Emily answered in shorts and a vest, thinking Daniel had returned.
The moment he saw her, his restraint snapped. Could she fight off a strong man? Screaming was pointless—neighbours out, unresponsive even if home. Who’d defy the family who’d bought the flat?
By the sofa, a heavy vase. She grabbed it, swung—his skull cracked beneath it.
She scrambled free, saw blood, panicked, called an ambulance. When Daniel returned, his father was gone, detectives questioning Emily.
She told the truth. Who’d believe her? The investigator twisted it—provocation, scheming for the business if his father died.
Four years in prison. A week in, her mother died—heartbroken. The Welshman’s eldest daughter sold the cottage, kept it from a convict.
Prison was hell for a beauty like her. Survival seemed impossible. Suicide crossed her mind, but youth clung to life. A cellmate had scissors, charged for haircuts. Emily promised payment, then mutilated her own face—stabbed her cheek when no one looked.
The prison doctor stitched it. The wound festered, left a grotesque scar. Now, no one glanced twice. She hid her shape under shapeless prison garb.
She worked hard, no trouble. Release day loomed—where to go? Daniel divorced her post-trial. Mother dead, home sold. No other family.
“Where will you go?” they asked. “Relatives in Manchester,” she lied. Her mother once mentioned a trip there with her father. Why not try?
But she didn’t stay. A big city, a convict’s record—work was unlikely. The scar now hurt, not helped.
At a small station, dusk fell. Where now? Little money, no rooms for rent. September nights were cold. A battered old Ford pulled up. She tensed, but the window rolled down—a red-bearded man.
“New here? Need a hotel?”
She hesitated. He stepped out—a priest in a black cassock. She adjusted her hair to hide the scar.
“Just released?” Father Michael asked.
“How’d you know?”
“Easy. Freshly freed always seek the sun. You all have the same look. Don’t fear me. I’ll show you a hotel, or… something better.”
She stiffened.
“I live with my wife and kids. Our eldest is at uni in Manchester—room’s free. Stay, help my wife. No charge. Well?”
No choice. She agreed. Told him her story.
“Did that happen inside?” he asked, nodding at her cheek.
“Self-inflicted.”
He didn’t pry. The car stopped at a low fence.
“Home,” he said.
His wife, Ruth, welcomed her, asked no questions. The kids showed her their sister’s room, eyeing the scar but silent.
Later, Emily confessed everything. Ruth fought tears; Father Michael said suffering led to grace. For the first time in years, Emily slept soundly.
She stayed, helped Ruth, tutored their youngest in maths. Sundays, she joined Father Michael at church, even sang timidly in the choir. The past dulled.
When he learned she’d wanted to be a doctor, he promised to ask a university contact.
“They won’t take an ex-con,” she said.
“You have A-levels?”
“Yes, but my husband kept the certificates. Probably tossed them.”
“Time enough. Don’t give up yet.”
“Why help me?”
“Restore your faith in people,” he said. “We’re all siblings under God.”
“How can I repay you?”
Ruth hugged her. “Just pass it on. Give freely, as we have.”
A year passed. Emily thawed, stopped flinching at noises. Her documents turned up at the London med school. She enrolled in Manchester. Weekends, she visited Father Michael’s family, the kids chattering excitedly.
Classmates initially shunned her scar. During surgery rotations, a professor offered to revise it.
“Who butchered this?” he asked.
She smiled, let him fix it. The new scar faded to near-invisibility.
After graduation, she worked at a Manchester hospital. Five years later, a conference took her back to London. Heart pounding, she braced for familiar faces, then relaxed—her world and her ex’s no longer overlapped.
On her last day, shopping for Father Michael’s family, someone called her name. She turned—Daniel. Gaunt, scruffy, but him.
“Emily! You’re back?”
“Just a conference.”
“You’re a doctor?”
“Yours.”
He looked abashed.
“Dad’s partners stole everything after he died. I was naïve. Sold our flat…”
“Hers,” she corrected.
He nodded. “Mum died. I’m sorry I didn’t help you. Can you spare any money?”
She handed him all she had.
“I can’t pay it back.”
“Don’t. Need anything else?”
Hope flickered, died. “No. I deserve this. Where you living? No, don’t say. I should go.” He pocketed the cash, stepped away.
“I loved you, Emily. Just a coward, obeying Mum.” He vanished into the Underground.
“Daniel!” she called. He didn’t look back.
On the train, she wondered—did he deserve this? Should’ve asked how to reach him… Then sheShe leaned back in her seat, watching the countryside blur past, and knew—for the first time—that the dark streak was finally behind her.
