• Long Listed for the 2018 Wattys
• A Wattpad Featured Story
• Top 30 in the first ever Historical Awards
[ A "GREAT EXPECTATIONS" RETELLING ]
GENRE: historical fiction
London, 1884
"Sometimes, even messiahs can't bring back the dead."
Instead of ea...
“What a day!” Daniel Fallon, my classmate, sighs in relief as our long day ends.
It's only been a few months since I got admitted into medical school, but I think I may have a nervous breakdown any day now. After classes ended, I wandered into the main hospital's corridors where most patients and doctors rotate at all hours. Students mostly stay on the east part of the hospital where academics take place.
Daniel keeps talking about a new nurse recruit till a few nurses hurriedly pull a stretcher through the corridors. I don't look up from the papers in my hands till I see a familiar face.
The papers fall from my grasp as I freeze.
Daniel blinks at me, slowly picking up the papers. “What's wrong, chap?”
The nurses whisk away the stretcher into the surgical wards, but not before giving me a clear of the grunting man bleeding through the sheets’ pallor.
Heartbeat slows down, breathing all the more louder.
“Matthew…” Daniel asks, chewing on his lip.
“William, that was him. On the stretcher. He's my… like a brother to me.” I don't realise what's happening till I somehow end up on a chair with my papers in my lap.
No, it isn't possible. He can't be that wounded. It's not possible.
He does work in the police.
I shiver, breathing shallow and hands running through my hair.
“I'm sorry, Matthew…” Daniel shaking my shoulder brings me back. He sits beside me. “There was a gang brawl in the East End. Five injured--”
I don't know how my quivering stops when I ask, “But William--”
“Three gunshots. May his soul find peace. I'm sorry, chap…”
I don't believe what Daniel says. I don't believe it when even Doctor Hopkins can't think of a joke. I don't believe it when Mrs Hopkins clutches onto her son's old clothes. I don't believe it when Miss Alice follows her husband's suit after giving premature birth. I only believe it when Doctor Hopkins's eyes redden and William's children clutch onto Mrs Hopkins's numb posture.
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These days, older memories always seem to bleed when they touch my skin. I find what I think is the truth, but do not settle for that as an answer. Perhaps, that is why I'm sitting in front of Mathilda's mother.
“What is it you wanted to talk about, lad?” asks Mrs Penrose.
The crisp walls peel away into nothingness the more they wait for me. Taking a deep breath, I finally say, “Today I'm here as your doctor, not a guest.”
