I glance at the office clock then check the time on my monitor for what feels like the hundredth time. I swear the hands are moving backwards. The conversation brewing around me is making me anxious, worrying how I’ll deflect yet another invitation without seeming rude, stand-offish, ungrateful.
I just want to go home.
‘We could make a night of it,’ Wendy says to someone as she walks past my workspace.
I cower down, pretending to be immersed in the project I have open.
‘Depends if you want to be a functioning human being tomorrow, or not,’ a male voice chimes back from between the office partitions.
There’s laughter, a few other comments, a plan forming – leave work at 5.30 p.m. on the dot, head to the bar around the corner, have a few drinks, maybe get some food, more pubs, crawl home, sleep it off. I can’t help the shudder as I stare at my screen, playing the same ten-second clip over and over again. I don’t know if it’s the film sending shivers through me, or the talk of a night out.
Work, home, sleep…
‘What say you, Miss Sinclair?’ comes a voice from behind me.
I don’t need to turn around. I know it’s Adam. He rarely uses my first name, though he does for everyone else.
‘About what?’ I reply, leaning into my screen, pretending to concentrate, tweaking the film clip for the sake of it. Anything to make him think I’m busy.
‘A piss-up after work to celebrate Helen’s engagement?’
He comes into my little cubicle, plonking himself down on the corner of my desk. I slide my coffee cup away from the edge.
‘But Helen isn’t in today. She’s gone on a course.’
‘So?’ Adam says, shrugging. ‘Doesn’t mean to say we can’t celebrate without her.’
I look up at him, my heart flipping an unsteady beat. I’m pretty sure they only ask me out of duty, but I’m running out of excuses.
‘Any excuse for the pub,’ I say, adding a smile. ‘But I’m sorry, I can’t. I really have to finish grading this clip. I’m running behind as it is.’
Adam thinks about this, pulling a ‘fair enough’ face. In the past I’ve used sick relatives, hospital appointments, tiredness, sore throats, vague, nondescript plans and lack of money as reasons not to join in with work gatherings. They don’t push it. It’s generally accepted that ‘Ella never comes’. But still they keep asking.
I know it’s not them. It’s me.
Adam folds his arms. Shows no sign of leaving. ‘That’s the school fire-safety film, right?’ he says, squinting at my screen.
‘Yes,’ I say, replaying the clip yet again, skipping past that bit. It never gets any easier. ‘I’m just struggling with the animated section in the middle. I know it’s for kids but—’
‘You do know the deadline has been put back, don’t you?’
I stare up at him, swallowing. The clip plays on – the sound of crackling, popping and then roaring somehow even more disturbing without the images. I close my eyes for a second but, behind them, the flames are still there.
It only takes seconds for a fire to spread… the voiceover says. How long does it take you to get out?
‘Oh… I…’ I say, choking, coughing. ‘I didn’t realise.’
‘So in that case, Miss Sinclair, why don’t you down tools, shake out your hair and come and get lashed with the rest of us?’ Adam says, leaning forward. He reaches over, his armpit in my face as he takes hold of my mouse, about to log out of the system for me.
‘No!’ I swipe away his arm, knocking over my half-finished coffee. It spills all over my keyboard. ‘Christ,’ I say, leaping up and grabbing a bunch of tissues from the box on my desk.
Adam quickly raises his hands, backing off. ‘OK, OK, I get the hint,’ he says, adding a laugh. ‘Just thought the real Miss Sinclair might want to, you know, come out to play.’
I drop my head, my hand pressing half a dozen tissues onto my desk and keyboard, waiting for the mess to soak up. Then I turn, catching sight of Adam as he leaves, shaking his head.
‘No,’ I say, too quietly for him to hear. ‘No, she doesn’t.’
It’s amazing how much mess half a cup of coffee makes. After I’ve unplugged my keyboard, dried it out, wiped all around, dabbed the papers that got wet as well as putting back everything just as it was, I sit back down, head in hands. 5.23 p.m. Seven minutes until the others leave. Seven minutes until I’m off the hook. And Adam was right. Looking at the time schedule for this job, I see the deadline isn’t until the end of next week now. So many projects come and go that it’s easy to lose track of the ones that change. But this one… well, it’s not been easy and I had hoped it would have been assigned to another editor. The fire service, in conjunction with the local education authority, commissioned a series of safety films to show in schools. Know Your Exit is the film’s title and, if the campaign saves even one life, then it has been worth it.
I rest my head in my hands. Sometimes, there is no way out.
‘Don’t flog yourself all night, will you, Ella?’ a voice says from behind.
Not Adam this time. I swing around, give him a little smile. Liam’s OK.
‘I won’t,’ I reply.
He has his jacket on, a work bag on his shoulder, an expectant look on his face.
‘You sure you won’t come to the pub?’ he adds, hesitating.
I admit, it’s almost tempting. Anything to get away from this project.
‘I’m sorry, I’m really tired,’ I say. ‘Anyway, I left my purse at home this morning.’ The truth, at least. ‘And I don’t want to be cycling home too late. The rain’s getting heavier,’ I add, glancing out of the window.
‘Well I’m happy to buy you a few drinks. Or lend you some cash if you prefer?’ There’s hope in his eyes.
‘Really, it’s fine,’ I say, shaking my head.
‘How about a lift home then?’ Liam says, persevering. ‘I’m borrowing my mum’s car today. I’m sure we can get your bike in the boot somehow. And, to be honest,’ he says, glancing at the others gathering by the door, lowering his voice, ‘I’m not fussed about going out either. I can’t drink because I’m driving. You’d be my get-out-of-jail card.’
‘Thanks, but I’ll just finish up here then get home. You have a good night.’ I turn back to my monitor, hoping that’s the end of the conversation.
‘Maybe another time then,’ he says before leaving, though I sense he waits a moment in case I change my mind.
When he’s gone, when the others have all grabbed their stuff and headed out towards the lifts, when the office is finally silent, I lay my head down on my desk trying hard not to cry.
The cleaner is vacuuming and emptying bins, her headphones in. Finally, I log out and shut down my system before fetching my backpack and waterproof jacket from a locker near the entrance. Space is at a premium here, with most of the work areas pretty cramped, so the office manager agreed to staff storage last year. I think I’m the only one who uses it, and the only one to leave sandwiches in the ancient fridge in the staff kitchen upstairs. I glance at the clock again – 6.43 p.m. already – later than I’d intended to leave, but I’d decided to try to figure out why the film wasn’t working, so I didn’t have to think about it next week.
‘It’s just not real enough,’ I’d whispered to myself under the noise of the vacuum, watching the clip for the hundredth time. Though it had occurred to me that maybe it didn’t seem real because I was watching it through a personal filter. Detached and numb. In the end, I’d given up, hoping inspiration would strike next week.
Outside, the rain is coming down harder – the earlier drizzle now a downpour – and it’s getting dark too. I wonder whether to wait it out, perhaps even head around the corner to the pub after all, see if the others are still there. But the lurch in my stomach tells me not to, that I just need to get home. Going to the pub would mean chatting, listening, being asked questions that weren’t to do with work, and having to share stories, revealing little details about my life. Stuff about me. And there simply isn’t anything to tell. Not that I’m willing to admit, anyway.
I unlock my bike – the last one left at the rack – and wriggle into my backpack, zipping up my cycling top to the chin. I’ve had it for ages and it’s not very waterproof, but I’m not good at shopping, at choosing new things for myself. Twice a year I’ll order a few new things online in the sales, venture to the shops only if absolutely necessary. I’m clean and unnoticeably smart, but I don’t need to look attractive. Not any more.
I brush the water off my saddle, wondering where the huge sigh comes from as I stare down the busy street – people hurrying home, couples huddled under umbrellas, taxis being pounced on, the sound of tyres on the wet road. It’s probably the rain making me blink so much, but I can’t help wiping my eyes anyway as I head off, pedalling hard, weaving into the traffic, my wheels splashing through the puddles. I imagine the warm bath I’ll slip into, the macaroni cheese pinging in the microwave, and perhaps I’ll watch a documentary later or pick up that book I started the other night.
The perfect evening. Quiet and alone.
The same as every evening.
I head through the city centre, knowing the route so well that I barely need to think about it. I glance back over my right shoulder, waiting for the car to pass before I change lanes, silently cursing myself for forgetting my helmet this morning. It’s not at all like me to be disorganised, to leave things out of my backpack, but my routine was broken, my sleep disturbed. I tossed and turned all night, that blasted film playing on my mind. The flames in it engulfing everything.
Suddenly, a horn blares.
The driver glares at me, giving me the finger as I swerve to the left, my mouth open in shock. I pedal on but slower and steadier now, taking more care as I wipe the rain from my face, trying to ignore the damp seeping through my clothes, the mud splattering up my legs and back. I just want to get home and shut out the world.
Twenty minutes later and I reach the final roundabout before the downhill run home – less traffic now that I’m well out of the city, and much safer, even though the streetlights are further apart, the roads not as well lit. But the roundabout is clear, so I kick up my pace again, taking out the day’s frustration on my legs, pushing myself to the limit as I lean into the curve, cycling around until my exit comes up, squinting against the rain as it stings my face. I hear my breathing as I push on – deep, laboured pants as I pedal. Then, out of the blue, that film is on my mind again, along with everything else that goes with it.
Suddenly, it’s as though I’m not cycling at all – I’m running, screaming and panicking as the flames take hold, the horror of what I’ve done gripping me by the throat.
I cough and screw up my eyes, forcing back the tears.
Please, just let me get home…
I don’t see the van pulling out until it’s too late – wipers flapping, exhaust belching, the driver looking down, not concentrating as he speeds towards me. I brake hard but there’s nothing I can do to stop him hitting me, crying out as I go down, my hands flying out in slow motion, my leg crushing beneath metal. The pain is so intense it doesn’t seem real.
There’s nothing I can do at all as the world goes completely black.
Everything extinguished.
Ella is not dead. She knows this much. She senses something, aside from the ripping pain in her body, that tells her she’s still alive.
It’s her thoughts. Her mind. Her unconsciousness bleeding back into a conscious state, punctuated by occasional noises – so loud – and flashes of light behind her eyelids, something brushing against her skin.
I’m not dead.
She goes with it. Relief that thoughts are now forming into silent words, sentences even, rather than primal feelings swirling inside her head.
Then she hears more words, someone else’s words. Comforting words.
‘Ella, love…’
A hand on her forehead.
‘Ella, it’s OK. You’re in hospital. Can you hear me?’
A hand on her shoulder.
‘Open your eyes if you can, Ella. You’re going to be OK…’
Someone adjusting the sheets. Sandpaper on her skin.
She tries to move her lips, open her eyes, but nothing happens. Or maybe her eyes are open, her mouth forming words, but her brain hasn’t reconnected to them yet. She twitches a finger.
‘That’s it, Ella… move your hand, love. Can you open your eyes?’
Ella tries but her eyelids are stuck together. Sewn up.
What happened to me? she wants to ask, but nothing comes out, so she searches the depths of her mind instead. It must all be in there.
Sheeting rain… the roundabout… pedalling hard… darkness…
A shudder runs the length of her body, as though someone’s fed an electric current through her, igniting every cell.
‘I didn’t want to go to the pub,’ she hears someone whisper, breathy and barely there.
It’s her own voice. She spoke.
‘There was a fire…’ she says. Nothing makes sense. ‘It hurts.’
‘There was no fire, love. Where’s the worst pain?’ The other voice is kind, soothing, making Ella feel that, while she knows something terrible has happened, it somehow seems bearable as long as that voice is there.
But still her eyes won’t open.
A hand on her forehead again, stroking.
‘My leg. Everywhere,’ Ella says, wincing as the shrillness of her voice cuts through her head, even though she’s only whispering.
‘I’ll top up your pain relief,’ the kind voice says. ‘You’re due some more. I’m Sue, by the way. Your nurse.’
Ella hears noises around her, then another, different voice. Everything is so loud.
‘Is she coming round?’
‘Does Mr Hicks know?’
‘You going out to Malc’s birthday drinks after shift?’
None of it makes sense.
‘I’ve just topped up your meds through your drip,’ the nurse says.
Ella feels her breath on her cheek. Warm and sweet, as though she’s recently drunk sugary coffee.
Then she hears a chair being dragged close, feels the nurse taking her hand. She wants to scream out that it hurts – her leg, her arm, her head – but she doesn’t have the energy. It takes all her resources just to breathe.
‘Can you hear me, Ella, love? Squeeze my hand if you can.’
Ella does as she’s told, forcing her fingers to clench. The nurse’s hand feels warm and soft, full of life, as her brittle fingers clamp around it. Gripping on.
‘Well done, Ella. You’ve been in a medically induced coma for several days, my love. You’re going to be fine, but you had an accident. Your leg is broken and your wrist has several fractures. The doctors decided a coma was the best place for you to recover from the brain swelling.’ She pauses. ‘You weren’t wearing a helmet.’
Ella doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She searches her mind but only finds fragments of a puzzle, little disconnected pieces that won’t yet fit together.
‘Accident?’
‘You were knocked off your bike, love,’ the nurse goes on.
That’s when Ella sees herself, as if from above, cycling onto the roundabout, pedalling hard, nearly home.
And then the van.
For a second, she remembers it. Two bright saucers of light, the sheeting rain making her squint, the wipers flapping fast across the windscreen.
Ella just wanted to get home. Pedalled harder. Leant into the curve of the roundabout to get past. But…
‘Oh…’ She hears herself sobbing as the memory comes. Screws up her eyes, even though they’ve not opened yet. Her chest is tight, her breathing hard.
‘Just try to relax, love. The morphine will start to work in a moment.’
The sound of the monitor returns to a steadier beep as Ella consciously slows her breathing, tries not to dwell on the reforming memories in her fuzzy mind.
‘I can’t move my leg,’ she says, willing her body to move. But the right one feels like a dead weight, clamped and heavy. Filled with pain. The left one moves a little when she forces her muscles, the sheets rustling as her foot twitches.
‘You had an operation,’ the nurse says. ‘They had to put a metal pin in your knee, so you’ll be making good friends with airport security officers now.’
Sue laughs but Ella can’t understand why. Is she going somewhere? Ella doesn’t think she’s been on a plane for a long while. Has no desire to.
Work, home, sleep. Work, home, sleep.
All she wants is to be alone and for the pain to go away. No, she won’t be going on any planes.
‘Why don’t you try to open your eyes, Ella?’ Sue says. ‘You’re in Critical Care right now, so don’t be alarmed by all the equipment. Just try to get your bearings a little.’
Bearings? Ella thinks. She doesn’t want to get her bearings, not here anyway.
‘I want to go home,’ she manages to say.
‘That’s a good sign,’ the nurse says with a little laugh. ‘But one step at a time, eh? Maybe you could manage a few sips of water? Your throat must be very dry.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Ella says, her mind swimming with thoughts that don’t even seem like hers. ‘There was a fire,’ she hears herself saying.
‘No, love. There was no fire,’ Sue says again, dabbing something cool and wet against her lips. ‘You can suck on this if you like. It’s just a little sponge dipped in water.’
Ella opens her mouth, allowing the wetness to dribble onto her lips and tongue. It feels good.
‘If you can manage to open your eyes, you’d make a certain person very happy later,’ Sue goes on.
Ella doesn’t think she’s made anyone happy in a long time.
‘Your lovely man has visited you every day since the accident.’
Ella thinks about this. Allows her brain to search and scan, seeking out the image of a ‘lovely man’ – or, indeed, any man who would visit her in hospital, let alone every day. She can’t think of a single one.
‘Lovely man,’ Ella repeats, hoping it will jog her memory. Her mind remains blank. ‘I-I don’t know?…’
‘Your husband,’ Sue says kindly. ‘Unless you have lots of lovely men in your life?’ She squeezes Ella’s hand, giving a little laugh.
‘Husband?’ Ella repeats, trying to process what the nurse is telling her. There’s a gap, a blank zone in her memory. The puzzle pieces won’t be forced together.
‘He’s hardly left your side since you were brought in.’
‘Oh,’ Ella says, still confused.
‘He’s a keeper, for sure.’
Ella feels her hair being tucked behind her ear then, her cheek stroked.
‘And quite a looker, too,’ Sue says in a whisper, giving her hand another squeeze.
But Ella can’t recall if he’s a keeper, a looker, or anything else for that matter. Because right now, lying in the hospital bed, scarcely able to move a muscle, Ella doesn’t even remember getting married.
‘What an awful thing to happen to newly-weds. You were all over the local news by morning,’ Sue goes on, oblivious to Ella’s lagging thoughts.
She needs to catch up, needs to figure out who her ‘lovely man’ is – perhaps a quick snapshot in her mind of their wedding day. Tap into an image of them together.
But there’s nothing.
Ella wants to say something, wants to ask the nurse who he is, what he looks like, tell her that she can’t remember anything about him, let alone marrying him – and she certainly doesn’t want to have been on the news. But the sick coming up her throat overtakes the words as she retches and gags. Suddenly, her upper half is twisted sideways as Sue angles her head down, the nurse’s strong hands supporting her.
‘Let it out, my love,’ she hears her say. ‘It’s OK. I’ve got a dish here.’
Ella’s stomach clenches and knots, sending up watery, foul-tasting bile. There’s nothing in her.
Gently, Sue settles her back down. Ella feels too exhausted to speak, let alone ask about her husband.
‘Don’t worry,’ the nurse says, wiping Ella’s mouth with a tissue. ‘Sickness is common. I’ll get something written up for it.’
She makes it sound so normal, Ella thinks. Drugs. Vomiting. Broken bones. Husbands. Operations and comas. And to her, it probably is. But this isn’t normal for Ella; she knows that much, at least, as she searches her mind for answers. She cycles to work… an office, yes, with lots of equipment. Sandwiches, headphones, colleagues, the bank of monitors on her desk. Every day the same.
Work, home, sleep…
‘He was reading to you, you know. Poetry.’
Ella hears the nurse flipping through a book.
‘Sylvia Plath,’ she says.
‘Sylvia,’ Ella whispers. There’s a woman at work called Sylvia, she remembers – shards of life filtering back.
‘He told me it was your favourite. Though it looks a bit…’ The nurse trails off, making a puzzled noise in her throat.
Ella hears the book dropping onto a surface beside her. She knows for sure she’s not read any Plath since… well, since way back. She feels sick again.
Open your eyes, she begs herself. Please…
‘Anyway, he’ll be here soon. He brings you something lovely every visit. Though we couldn’t let him leave the flowers. They’re not allowed on the ward. Yesterday, he gave you a foot and hand massage with aromatherapy oils,’ Sue goes on, oblivious to Ella’s confusion. ‘Well, the ones that aren’t in plaster,’ she adds, with a chuckle.
Ella wonders if it’s the shock of hearing all this that allows her to catch a flash of light in her left eye. Then, suddenly, both eyes are open. Everything’s so bright, so blurry as her vision swims in and out of focus. The ward seems huge around her – like a football pitch. Or maybe it’s her that’s small now. Tiny. Insignificant. Almost gone.
So bright!
‘A massage?’ Ella says, trying to turn her head. ‘I don’t understand.’ Her eyes feel swollen and painful in their sockets as she looks around at Sue. She’s older than Ella pictured. The world is still a blurry, unfamiliar place.
‘He brought you these,’ Sue says, holding up several glossy magazines plus an expensive-looking box of chocolates. ‘It’s amazing none of the night staff have helped themselves.’
Ella tracks Sue’s hand as she puts the gifts back on the bedside locker. Then she sees the card.
‘Want to have a look?’ Sue says, picking it up.
Ella takes it, her hand shaking. On the front, there are flowers. A photograph of a huge embossed bouquet with gold writing above
Get Well Soon, Darling
She opens it, revealing the message, trying to focus.
‘“To my darling Ella”,’ Sue reads out loud for her. ‘“Nothing will keep us apart – the fire in our hearts will burn for ever. All my love, Jacob.” And he’s put loads of kisses at the end, see?’
‘Jacob…’ Ella says, trying to remember. And, just as she spots the gold ring on her left hand, part of her thinks she does.
Ella doesn’t know how many hours or maybe even days later it is, but Sue is still here, attending to her regularly as other members of staff come and go, doing their jobs around the ward. Banks of machines and monitors surround her, lines running to a drip stand from the back of her hand.
‘Was I asleep?’ she asks, trying to sit up but overcome by dizziness.
‘It’s normal,’ Sue replies, nodding, smiling down at her as she changes a bag of saline. ‘Your body’s doing a lot of healing.’
Ella looks down the length of the bed, one leg fatter than the other. The cast. Her right arm is similarly plastered from mid-forearm to her fingers. ‘Why do I feel so?…’ she says, trailing off, not knowing exactly how she feels. Just that it’s not like her.
‘Tired?’ Sue says, sitting down.
‘Yes, but that’s not all. I-I mean, I know who I am and everything. But some bits just don’t make sense. And… it’s scaring me.’
‘Imagine what your brain’s just been through, my lovely,’ Sue says, rubbing her hand. ‘Memory is a funny thing but it’ll come back. Mr Hicks will check on you tomorrow. You can ask him about it.’
‘But there’s nothing wrong with my memory,’ Ella says, frowning. ‘I know exactly—’
‘Ah…’ Sue says, suddenly standing up. ‘What good timing.’ She leans down then, sweeping some hair off Ella’s face. ‘Jacob is here, Ella,’ she whispers. ‘You’ll feel better now.’
Ella looks over, her vision still blurry at distance. Several visitors are coming and going, nurses attending the other patients. Then she sees the shape of a man in the doorway at the other end of the ward – a tall and commanding figure. He comes closer, briefly blocking the bright light from the window as he approaches, finally standing at the end of the bed.
‘Good news,’ Sue says, going up to him, touching his arm as if she knows him well. ‘Ella’s awake, look. The doctors were so happy with her progress, so they decided to bring her round early.’
Ella hears a voice. Deep and low. She can’t tell what he says. Can’t make out who he is.
Or perhaps she doesn’t want to.
‘She’s in and out of sleep still and quite confused,’ Sue says to the man. ‘Ella, your husband’s here, my love,’ she adds, turning back to the bed. ‘Say hello to Jacob.’ She fiddles with Ella’s hair again, as if it’s her duty to make Ella look presentable, even though she can still smell vomit on her chest.
Jacob…
The figure slowly comes closer, his features gradually resolving, taking Ella’s breath away as she stares up, unable to take her eyes off him. Maybe she’s still in a coma, she thinks – prays to God she’s still in a coma – and if she’s not, then she feels like she’ll pass out again anyway.
‘Jacob…’ she whispers, her expression crumpling into a frown. ‘Husband…’ she says, meaning it to sound like a question, even though it doesn’t come out that way.
‘I’m here, my darling,’ he says, not taking his eyes off her.
He bends down and cups her face in his hands, giving her an adoring look before kissing her tenderly on the mouth. When he slowly pulls away, his eyes are still closed as if he’s just feasted after a famine. He takes Ella’s hands, burying them in the warmth of his.
She feels his perspiration.
‘I’m here now, my darling, and everything’s going to be fine. Just like it was before.’ He sits down on the chair beside the bed, not taking his eyes off her.
He’s not my husband! I’ve never been married! Ella wants to scream, but she can’t say a word. Can’t move a muscle. Nothing works. She’s completely frozen.
‘I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone for a while,’ Sue says, smiling, closing the curtains around them.
A moment later, Ella throws up again.
Ella stares up at him, watery vomit dribbling down her chin. He plucks a couple of tissues from the box beside the bed and dabs at her skin gently, cleaning her up.
‘I’ve been so worried about you, darling,’ he says, his voice quiet and deep, as if he doesn’t want to be overheard. ‘I thought I’d lost you for ever.’ He throws the tissues away and sits down again, stroking her arm. ‘And I couldn’t bear that. Not again.’
‘What… what are you?…’ Ella wants to say doing here? but her brain, her thoughts and her mouth aren’t properly connected. Fear tears through her, consuming her, as she stares back at him, not believing what she’s seeing. Who she’s seeing.
Husband…
She touches her forehead, praying that her brain will start functioning properly, that this feeling will go. That any moment now she’ll wake up.
‘I’ve come to take care of my beautiful girl, of course,’ he says, leaning forward and kissing her again just as the nurse comes back.
‘Oh, you two,’ Sue says, eyeing them with a smile. She places a new cardboard dish on the table at the end of the bed. ‘Just in case.’
‘I’ll take good care of her,’ he says, smiling. He grips Ella’s hands in his again, his sweat seeping into her skin.
Poison.
‘You’re a lucky girl,’ Sue says, hands on hips. ‘My man doesn’t even make me a Lemsip when I get ill.’ She rolls her eyes, grins, goes off again, pulling the curtain closed.
‘Why are you?…’ Ella mumbles, staring at him. Her lips are chapped. She can feel the dry flakes sitting between her words. Isn’t even sure if she said them.
‘Alive?’ He gets up and slips off his jacket, draping it over the back of the chair. Then shifts even closer. ‘Because I’m a survivor, Ella-bella. And I told you. I’ve come to take care of you, of course. And when you’re well enough to leave hospital, we’ll be together again. Just as we should be.’
‘But—’
A finger presses against her lips. She wants to bite it off but it pushes down harder, hurting her now. A second later, his whole hand is covering her mouth and nose. He leans down on her, the pressure making it impossible to breath. . .
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