The angel of death. Does it have to be non-human, nothing but a mere personification of what causes everyone’s story to have the same ending?
I was ten years old when it happened.
It was because of a severe bacterial chest infection. I suffered from a high temperature and doctors stressed that my asthma could worsen it, having the potential to result in further complications, such as pneumonia.
And so, I was submitted to a children’s ward.
The memories are fuzzy, but I think she was in her early thirties - a stiff-lipped woman, stiff just like her attire.
She always kept her raven hair in a tight bun. I don’t think she cared for children emotionally at all. Just like my parents, who were too preoccupied with their jobs to visit me.
Instead, they trusted the nurse whenever she told them I was doing just fine.
I was under her care for the majority of my stay at the hospital. She’d come in to administer my IV antibiotics, which she’d inject directly into my bloodstream. I’d avert my attention to something else just to avoid her cold stare.
It wasn’t just me who felt intimidated by her presence - the other children in the ward held a similar distaste towards her too. Our hushed conversations would stop each time her heels clicked rhythmically against the floor, sound growing closer to the entrance of the ward.
“Guys, She’s coming!” We’d squeak in alarm, eyes widening in fear.
She was much more intimidating than the other nurses.
I befriended a girl called Isabella during my stay - she was around the same age as me. Isabella was admitted to the hospital because she also had a chest infection, though hers was not as severe as mine.
One day, the nurse came in to treat Isabella. Gave her the medicine, all went well.
The next day I woke up to her empty bed, which was opposite to mine.
She was gone.
I asked the nurses where Isabella was, and all they said was that she became well enough to go home. Of course for years I’d believed that.
Sadness overcame me soon after - I never got the chance to say goodbye to the friend I had made.
A few weeks later, I was beginning to feel better. I just needed to stay another week I think, before I could go home. The nurse who gave Isabella the medicine entered the ward to give me my daily dose of IV antibiotics.
It was muscle memory at that point - stretching out my sleeveless arm to let her hold it, she’d aim the needle to my vein, and in it goes.
I felt very proud of myself for not being scared of the needle like the other children - especially Isabella, she was horribly terrified and would even burst into tears at the sight of it.
“Stop squirming like a newborn.” She’d hiss through clenched teeth at the thrashing child, doing nothing except making it harder to aim the needle into her skin.
However, the nurse left for a short while claiming she ‘had a few errands to run’, and a few minutes after my injection I began to feel very strange.
My heart was beating rapidly and I was experiencing cold sweats, along with blurred vision and confusion. I was so scared - this experience was completely new to me. I tried calling out for help, but I just couldn’t.
I blacked out and that was it.
My eyes slowly opened to take in numerous worried faces who peered over me. Apparently I had gone through cardiac arrest due to an overdose of insulin in my bloodstream, which the doctor was very confused about.
I was saved by a nurse nearby, who was tending to another child. She noticed something was wrong and immediately resuscitated me. I was soon transferred to a different hospital nearby, where I fully recovered.
Oh, and the nurse that gave me the injections? Well, I never saw or heard about her again after that for years.
Until today.
I switched on the news to have all of these memories hit me in the face like a sledgehammer. This is why I’m writing about my story, because I remember it all now.
My jaw dropped as I saw the same nurse on the screen of my TV. She was recognisable by her stiff features, along with her cold stare that was powerful enough to make me shudder, as if I was ten years old again.
Her name is Becky Davidson, and she has been charged with three counts of murder. One of them being a familiar individual.
My heart dropped as a photograph of a cheerful, young girl flashed on the screen.
It was Isabella.
She killed her with an overdose of insulin, sending her into cardiac arrest. Just like what had happened to me.
It took years for the medical staff to become suspicious of her, thus the police were called in. She also had access to all the drugs, and that only further elevated their suspicion.
Ten year-old Isabella wasn’t at home, safe and healthy like the nurses had told me. She’s six feet under and has been all these years.
Becky Davidson entered pleas of not guilty to all charges, however a few days ago she was found guilty on each charge and has been sentenced to life in prison.
I did more research and found out that when she was sentenced to life in prison, she had begun to cry.
The judge asked her, “Why are you crying? Do you feel guilty for taking the lives of those three children?”
Her tears stopped immediately and she stared at him dead in the eyes,
“No, I would do it again if I could. I’m crying because I have been caught.”
The angel of death. Does it have to be non-human, nothing but a mere personification of what causes everyone’s story to have the same ending?