Ella
The fresh morning was perfect for my brisk walk to the hospital. In my head, I was already running through my ward—who was in, what needed doing, what I’d prioritise once my shift started.
This wasn’t the terrified child who’d tried to pry bottles from her father’s hand, only to be slapped away. These were people who appreciated my care. People who deserved it.
Twelve years ago, I should have learned my lesson. But no—I’d persisted in trying to help someone who didn’t want saving. It had been ten whole months since I’d finally cut that miserable cord. The hardest thing I’d ever learned was how to say no.
“Good morning, Terry,” I said, slipping my hand into my bag and producing his banana muffin.
“My wife’s going to kill me, but to hell with my cholesterol,” he said, eagerly taking it from me.
“It’s whole-wheat with flaxseed,” I said lightly. “I used extra virgin oil and dates to sweeten them. You’re safe.”
I smiled and turned toward the corridor, then paused.
“You’re not allergic to nuts, are you?”
“Only the one I live with,” he said with a wink as he peeled back the paper.
I chuckled, shaking my head.
“Have a good one,” I called, lifting a hand as I walked on.
“You too, Ella,” he said, though the muffin muffled most of his voice.
My job wasn’t easy, and morale could dip under pressure.
Sometimes the smallest gesture could make someone’s day.
I hummed softly as I moved through the reception areas and corridors until I reached my part of the building — the enhanced recovery unit, where I helped patients post-surgery until they were well enough to go home.
“Morning. I’ll be out in a minute,” I said, waving to Lorraine and Hanneli as I passed them and headed for my locker.
The staff room was empty, giving me a brief moment to breathe.
The air carried the layered scents of floral perfume or body spray, coffee, and the faint, sterile undertone of the hospital itself.
I hoped I would always love my job like this.
With a smile on my face, I pulled out the carrot-and-sultana, nut-free muffins for the girls before stuffing my hefty bag into the locker.
Today was going to be a good day.
I could feel it in my bones.
?
?
?
I double-checked Mrs Carter’s chart to make sure the medication I was about to give her was correct.
“Can you please state your name and date of birth?”
“You know exactly who I am, young lady. I’ve seen you every day for the last five days,” she scoffed. “And when am I getting some decent food?”
“When we’re given decent food to give you,” I said with a smile, confirming her details on the wristband before checking the dose and labels against her chart.
“Fifty years of paying taxes, and I get green jelly and toast,” she grumbled. “Everyone knows the green one is utter shite.”
“At least your medicine is free,” I said lightly.
“I heard you’re sneaking in muffins,” she added, waggling her white eyebrows.
I checked the time and method for the medication.
“How about this—if you behave, I’ll bake you a batch the day you’re discharged?”
“Fine,” she sniffed, raising her frail hand for the IV. “Perhaps the injection will fill me up.”
Such a drama queen.
The food wasn’t great, but I couldn’t say that to a patient.
I sat with her for a few moments before moving on.
Some patients didn’t get visitors, so I tried to spend a little extra time with them when I could.
It was never much, given the workload, but I always left Mrs Carter with a smile on her face.
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I took a walk around the hospital grounds during my lunch break. The warmth of the afternoon sun was a pleasant contrast to the morning’s chill. In a few months, summer would return. Until then, I’d settle for the fresh blooms of daffodils and crocuses.
I bent down and brushed my fingers over a yellow bud.
My mum loved her plants and flowers.
Gone too soon.
The paramedics had tried to resuscitate her, but it was already too late.
A hit and run.
There hadn’t been many cameras back then, and nobody—
“Do you have a light?” a gruff voice asked behind me.
I turned, but my attention snagged on the unlit cigarette in his hand.
An ornate biblical cross was inked across it. At its centre sat an eerie skull, the tip of the cross running down his middle finger. I wasn’t religious, but it still felt blasphemous. The tattoo continued across his knuckles, forming what looked like a skeletal hand.
My gaze followed the ink until a leather sleeve cut it off.
“A light?” he asked again, irritation sharpening his tone.
I glanced up. A snake was tattooed around his throat, its body disappearing beneath his collar. A piercing sat beneath his eyebrow. His eyes were hard. Cold. Glacial.
“I’m sorry. I don’t smoke.”
“That’s not what I asked you, is it?” he drawled.
“I—I have a torch at home,” I said, straightening.
It didn’t help. He was much taller. Broader too.
Steroids, maybe.
My eyes flicked back to his—pale blue, unforgiving, framed by dark, scruffy hair.
Run.
The thought screamed through me as he bared his teeth.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I turned and hurried toward the hospital’s main entrance. I’d learned how to survive my father and his so-called friends.
My instincts had kept me alive then.
They weren’t wrong now.
That man was trouble.