Regretted Dumping the Gold Digger

The oncology wing of City General Hospital was quiet.

I sat on a cold bench at the far end of the hallway, clutching the diagnosis report that had just been printed. The corners of the paper were crumpled beneath my fingers.

“Late-stage stomach cancer. The cancer has spread to the lymph nodes. Immediate hospitalization and chemotherapy are recommended. Estimated survival time is no more than three months.”

Dr. Parker, my attending physician, took off his glasses and looked at me with the calm of someone who had seen life and death too many times.

I asked him what would happen if I refused treatment.

He said I might have two months at most, and the final month would be extremely painful. The pain could reach a seven or higher on the scale.

“I understand. Thank you, Doctor.”

I left his office with the report in my hand and sat down on the bench outside.

My stomach started hurting again.

It felt like someone was slowly sawing through the lining of my stomach with a dull knife, back and forth without stopping.

Cold sweat broke out across my forehead and trickled down my cheeks. I curled up on the bench, digging my nails into my palms.

My phone screen lit up.

Ethan Ford had posted on social media an hour ago.

The location tag read Reykjavík, Iceland.

In the photo, Ethan stood beneath the Northern Lights with his arm around Claire Leedon. Waves of green light poured across the sky as she leaned against his shoulder, smiling sweetly.

He wore a black coat, his chin resting on top of her head. The tenderness in his eyes made it seem as though he were looking at the most precious thing in the world.

The caption was simple.

“The only one I’ll ever love.”

I stared at the photo for a long time as wave after wave of pain tore through my stomach.

In the end, I called him.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

No answer.

I hung up and tried again.

The second call went unanswered.

He declined the third.

Then the fourth.

I kept count, calling again and again, only to have each call rejected.

On the ninety-eighth attempt, the screen showed a call duration of zero seconds before the red “Call Ended” notification appeared.

My eyes burned.

I pressed call for the ninety-ninth time.

This time, it rang three times before he answered.

A fierce wind howled through the phone. Then I heard Claire’s bright laughter, crisp and clear like ice shattering against the ground.

“Ethan, come look! The Northern Lights are turning pink over there!”

His voice was warm with amusement.

“I’m coming.”

Then he spoke into the phone, and his tone instantly turned cold.

“Nora Spencer, what the hell is wrong with you? It’s the middle of the night.”

I opened my mouth, but my throat felt blocked. Even I barely recognized my own voice when it came out.

“Ethan, I’m in so much pain. The doctor said I…”

“You’re pretending to be sick now just to get my attention?” he cut me off, his voice thick with impatience. “Nora, you disgust me.”

Claire’s timid voice came through the phone.

“Ethan, is that Nora? What happened to her?”

“Nothing. She’s just acting up again.”

His voice softened so completely when he spoke to her that he sounded like a different man.

Then he turned back to me.

“Quit pretending you’re dying. Claire’s afraid of the dark, and I can’t leave her. Go find something else to do and stop embarrassing yourself.”

The call ended.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

As I listened to the dial tone, a metallic taste surged up my throat.

I covered my mouth, and thin streaks of blood seeped between my fingers.

My phone vibrated.

It was a message from Ethan.

“Call me again, and I’ll block you.”

Before I could reply, another message appeared.

“Claire’s going to sleep. Don’t disturb us.”

I typed a single word and tried to send it.

A red exclamation mark appeared beside the message.

It had been rejected by the recipient.

He’d blocked me.

I leaned back against the bench.

The fluorescent light above me buzzed softly. The hallway was deserted except for the occasional tapping of a keyboard at the nurses’ station in the distance.

I looked down at the diagnosis report in my hands.

The words had gone blurry.

I raised a hand to wipe my eyes, only to realize there were no tears.

I laughed.

But the laugh quickly brought another mouthful of blood rushing up my throat.

I bent forward as blood spilled from my lips and splattered across the report, staining the words “late-stage stomach cancer” red.

One drop after another soaked into the paper.

The color reminded me of Claire’s lips beneath the Northern Lights.

I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth.

Then I tore the report in half.

And again.

I ripped it into pieces and threw them into the trash can at the end of the hallway.

One scrap fluttered back out and landed on the floor. Blood stained the words printed across it.

“Three months.”

I didn’t bend down to pick it up.

The pain had left my legs weak. Bracing one hand against the wall, I slowly made my way toward the exit.

As I passed the nurses’ station, the night nurse looked up at me. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but she stopped herself.

I walked out of the hospital.

Rain was falling outside. A cold gust slipped beneath my collar, making me shiver.

A taxi was parked by the curb. The driver rolled down his window and called out to me.

“Miss, need a ride?”

I opened the back door, climbed in, and gave him the address of the villa.

As the car pulled away, I turned and looked back at the hospital entrance.

The white lights blurred through the rain.

I wasn’t going to get treatment.

I would spend my final two months with what little dignity I had left.