So instead of fighting, I walked past them both. Step after step, desperate to leave the suffocating air. But before I reached the door, the world tilted—and darkness swallowed me whole.
When sound returned, it came in fragments.
“She needs blood,” a voice said.
“None available in the bank,” another replied.
I recognized Oliver’s sharp tone, irritated, impatient. “Then wait until there’s some.”
“Sir, her blood count is dropping. If we wait too long—”
“Let her. Maybe it’s better this way. She’s been nothing but a burden. This would be a natural death if ever.”
I wanted to scream. To ask him How could you? But my body was too weak, trapped in sleep.
“I can donate.” Beatrice’s voice. Hesitant, trembling.
“No. You’re anemic. You’ll faint at a needle prick. Forget it.” Oliver’s answer was cold, final.
And then silence.
When I woke up fully, I was in a hospital bed, an IV dripping beside me. A nurse smiled softly. “Mrs. Smith, you’re awake. Please, don’t move too much. You need rest. You had dengue, and your blood count dropped dangerously low. You almost…”
Her voice trailed off. I didn’t need her to finish. I already knew.