**Black Streak**
Like every girl her age, Emily had dreams. She wanted to go to university after school, become a doctor, and find a love to last a lifetime. Who doesn’t dream like that at seventeen? But not everyone gets what they wish for. Who knows why? If only she’d known.
Her mum, Margaret, raised her alone. Like Emily, she’d once dreamed of a prince—fell for a handsome bloke she thought was her happy ending. But he turned out to be a gambler. Luck rarely favoured him; small wins only fuelled his addiction, while losses piled high. He blew everything at the card tables, took out loans, dug himself into debt.
To clear one big debt, he got tangled up with criminals. Caught on his first job, he went to prison—whether he died there or was helped along, no one knew. One day, two shaven-headed thugs turned up at Margaret’s door, saying the debt was hers now. Threats followed. What could she do? She handed over the flat with everything in it and fled with two-year-old Emily, no destination in mind. Maybe the thugs figured there was nothing left to squeeze from her, or maybe the flat covered most of the debt—either way, they never came after her again.
Margaret and Emily settled in a small town in Kent. She hoped the fertile south would keep them fed. Rented a room from a Welshman in his cottage. He didn’t charge rent, just asked for help around the house and garden. His wife had died two years prior, his grown children lived elsewhere with families of their own.
Margaret agreed. She cleaned, cooked, helped with the harvest and digging the garden—always work in a house with land. The Welshman sold his produce at market, made a modest living. On good days, he gave Margaret a bit of cash for clothes for her and Emily, sometimes bought them gifts himself. Margaret saw where this was heading. So when he proposed, she wasn’t surprised. He was short, balding, with a gut and twice her age. She didn’t fancy him—but what choice did she have? No money, nowhere to run.
He promised the cottage and garden would be hers and Emily’s when he died. So she agreed. Life with him was joyless, those years felt endless—but she had no say.
When he passed, Margaret finally breathed free. At last, she was her own woman, mistress of her home. What more could she want?
Emily grew up beautiful. Olive skin, grey eyes, full lips, a straight nose, thick dark curls, a lovely figure. Men—not just lads—stared, turned heads when she walked by. How could a mother not worry?
Margaret raised Emily strict, terrified she’d repeat her mistakes. She drilled into her: choose a man for stability, not looks.
*”With beauty like yours, you hold all the cards,”* she’d say.
(The past with her gambler husband left scars.)
Every day she warned her—don’t get involved with holidaymakers. They’ll use you, leave, and you’ll be alone, God forbid with a child. But what seventeen-year-old listens?
Then a uni student from London, visiting family, spotted Emily and lost his head. Came to Margaret to propose. Bragged about a big London house, how his dad’s business would be his one day.
Margaret wasn’t daft—she saw through his boasting.
*”You want to marry her? Fine. Emily’s still in school. Come back in a year, then we’ll talk. Till then, keep your hands off,”* she said, firm.
Secretly, she was thrilled. If he kept his word, Emily would live in clover.
The lad, smitten, agreed. He left, called, wrote. Visited for New Year’s. Final year of uni, soon working with his dad, learning the ropes, he’d be able to provide.
Emily waited, loyal. A year later, he returned with his parents. They saw she was beautiful—but not their son’s equal. Still, they allowed the marriage—such a pretty bride would impress their friends. They’d mould her into a proper Londoner.
The wedding was lavish. Margaret was happy for her. Before they left, she begged Emily not to rush into children. The newlyweds were happy, in love. Emily applied to medical school…
But then the father-in-law fixated on Emily’s beauty. His stares made her want to shrink, hide.
One day, his wife called—their son needed to come home, she felt ill. Oliver left at once. While he was gone, his father knocked at their flat door. A sweltering August day. Emily, in shorts and a vest, answered, thinking it was Oliver.
The father-in-law saw her, lost control, assaulted her. How could she fight off a strong, grown man? Screaming was futile—neighbours were out at work or on holiday. Even if they heard, they wouldn’t interfere. They knew who’d bought the couple’s flat.
By the sofa, where he’d pinned her, stood a heavy vase. If she could just reach it… He didn’t notice, lost to his frenzy. She grabbed it, swung—it connected with his skull.
She scrambled free. Blood seeped from the wound. Panicked, she called an ambulance. By the time Oliver returned, his father was in hospital, Emily in police questioning.
She told the truth—but who’d believe her? The inspector twisted it: she’d provoked him, planned it. If his father died, Oliver would inherit the business—why not speed it up?
Emily got four years. A week later, word came—her mother had died. Heart failure. The Welshman’s eldest daughter sold the cottage at once. No criminal would get it.
Prison was hard on a beauty like Emily. She knew she wouldn’t survive. Suicide crossed her mind—but youth fought for life. A cellmate had scissors, charged for haircuts. Emily promised to pay later. Alone, she stabbed her own cheek with them.
The prison doctor stitched it. The wound festered—left a hideous scar. Now, no one looked twice. She hid her figure under shapeless prison garb.
She worked quietly, no trouble. Release came—but where to go? Oliver divorced her after the trial. Mum dead, cottage gone. She’d never heard of other relatives.
At the gate, they asked her plans. She lied—distant family in Bristol. Mum had spoken of visiting there with her dad. A nice city, why not?
But she didn’t stay. A big city with a record? No work. The scar, once a shield, now just marked her. Nothing to do.
She stepped off the train at a small station at dusk. Where to go? Little money, no one to ask for cheap rooms. Too cold to sleep outside in September. Needed a hotel. She walked the unfamiliar streets, breathing freedom’s sweet air—when a battered old Ford pulled up. She tensed, but the window rolled down—a ginger-bearded man leaned out.
*”New here? Need a place?”*
Before she could answer, he stepped out. The black cassock told her—a vicar. She automatically tucked hair over her scar.
*”Just released?”* Father Michael asked.
*”How’d you know?”*
*”Easy. You all seek the sun—your eyes give you away. Don’t worry. I’ll show you a hotel. Or… I’ve a better offer.”*
She stiffened.
*”I’ve a house with my wife and kids. Eldest is at uni in Bristol—her room’s free. Stay, help my wife. No rent. Fancy it?”*
No choice. She agreed. On the drive, she confessed her crime.
*”That scar—from inside?”*
*”Self-inflicted,”* she admitted.
He nodded, asked no more. The car stopped at a low fence.
*”Here we are,”* he said.
His wife, Sarah, welcomed her warmly, asked no prying questions. The kids showed her their sister’s room, eyeing the scar but staying polite.
After bedtime, Emily told them everything. Sarah held back tears; Father Michael said suffering led to grace. For the first time in years, Emily slept soundly.
She stayed with them—helped Sarah with chores and their youngest, Annie, with schoolwork. Weekends, she went to church with Father Michael, assisted during services. Grew bold, even sang in the choir.
Slowly, the past faded. When Father Michael learned of her medical dreams, he promised to ask a university contact in Bristol.
*”They won’t take an ex-con,”* she said.
*”You got your A-levels?”*
*”Yes, but my ex has the certificates. Probably binned them.”*
*”I’ll ask. You’ve not given up, have you?”*
*”Why help me?”* she wondered.
*”Try trusting again. We’re all brothers here,”* he said.
*”How can I repay you?”*
Sarah hugged her.
*”Just pass it on. That’s payment enough,”* Father Michael smiled.
A year passed. Emily’s heart thawed. She stopped flinEmily eventually became a surgeon, found peace in healing others, and spent the rest of her life proving that even the deepest scars could fade with time and love.
