Part 1My Ex's Ten Life Sentences

The night I went to the ER with stabbing stomach pains, my boyfriend, Owen, was right beside me.

But before I could even finish describing the symptoms, the on-call physician cut me off with a dismissive wave.

"I told you last time, you can't push ten abortions!" the doctor snapped.

"You insisted it wasn't the father’s baby, that you had to go through with it—I can’t do anything for you now!”

I started to deny it, then, realizing the slander, I grew angry and demanded to speak to her supervisor.

Owen, however, put a hand on my arm, pulling me toward the cubicle next door.

"I know you're not that kind of person, honey. But right now, we need to focus on your pain. We’ll come back and file a complaint later.”

But we never filed that complaint. That encounter went viral online.

My reputation was destroyed.

Swallowed by the public’s scorn and vicious mockery, I fell into a crushing depression and eventually took my own life.

After I died, the doctor offered a tearful apology.

"I just saw how much pain she was in and wanted to distract her. How was I supposed to know she was that fragile?"

Owen, meanwhile, was heartbroken.

“She probably had a guilty conscience,” he’d said. “Don’t blame yourself for a thing.”

When I opened my eyes again, I was back.

I jerked my hand free from Owen’s grip and dialed the non-emergency line.

“Hello, I’m at St. Jude’s ER. I’ve just been told I’ve had ten abortions without my knowledge, and I suspect I’ve been systematically drugged.”

* * *

"Pain is exactly what you deserve."

The doctor, Sasha Reed, looked at me with open contempt. "An abortion is common, but it's not 'zero-harm.' This stomach pain is just the start—there's worse waiting down the line."

She offered a cruel smile. "But you probably don't care about that. Aside from your hair, you're a mess from head to toe. You've probably already gotten used to it, right?"

Yet, when Sasha turned to my boyfriend, Owen Garrett, the change was instantaneous. Her expression softened, becoming a sickening blend of warmth and obvious flirtation.

It took less than a second for me to realize: I was back. I had been reborn.

In my last life, it had gone exactly like this. My gastroenteritis flared up, leaving me twisted with pain, and Sasha—without running a single test, just scanning my insurance card—launched into her fabricated rant. It had nearly killed me then, just from the shock.

I’d been so desperate for relief that I hadn't erupted in the moment.

The next day, Sasha had posted a heavily edited, subtly coded video of my admission online.

“It is so hard being a doctor these days. Ten abortions and you come to me asking why your stomach hurts? You’re lucky it’s just your stomach,” she’d written.

“You weren't there, but the way she looked at me—you’d think I was one of the scumbags who got her pregnant, not the doctor trying to help.”

Though Sasha had tried to obscure my identity, the internet had "recognized" me, and the hate had been immediate. I had tried to explain my innocence, that I was careful, that the rumors were insane.

But no one had believed me.

“If you didn’t do it, why did you run? A normal person would fight, scream, and file a complaint.”

“The doctor was just trying to help, and you just up and left. You’re clearly guilty.”

“Thank god the doctor released the video first, otherwise the psycho patient would have blamed her for medical malpractice!”

The spiral of online hatred had led to my depression, and finally, to my ridiculous, messy death.