The incessant beeping of machines, the swift marching of feet to and fro, the wailing, the coughing, is starting to drive me insane. I've been stuck in this bed all week now and I hate it. Hate the smell of bleach - the sterile environment that has no sense of home and comfort. Just a uniformed reminder of the loss. A ruptured womb they had called it after I woke form a complete hysterectomy. No way for our child to have survived. I'm so sorry for your loss they'd told me. But when their shift ends and they're tucked up in their beds with their families sleeping soundly in rooms nearby, they don't spare a thought to my suffering. To the pain and anguish I'm feeling. Out of sight out of mind. No. They're not sorry at all. They're simply regurgitating a phrase society deems necessary in those moments.

I just want to go home. Away from the prying eyes, the questions and the judgement. Once nurse in particular visits me pretty often. Taking my observations and making small talk. She's lovely enough, perhaps the nicest I've seen here, but I'm still unsure about her. I look at the clock on my bedside. 8pm. She'll be here soon for my nightly check before I'm once again left on my own to the almost silence of this place.

I stroke my thumb across the soft material of my pyjamas, mind drifting to my child. For fourteen weeks and three days they had lived inside me, listening to my heartbeat in a way no other person could. Relying on me to protect them and bring them safely into this terrifying world. And I had failed. I wasn't even given the opportunity to see my child, to kiss their sweet little head. I was under anaesthesia while surgeons fought to stop the internal bleeding. Isn't it amazing how a fall down the stairs can do so much damage? Michael has visited every day, careful to act the part of the concerned husband. Each visit brings with it fresh fruit, clean clothes, gossip from his workplace and words a man who loved you would whisper. Then there's the threat. The promise. Tell anyone and next time I'll leave you to die. So I remain silent. Repeating the same story on a continuous loop. I was cleaning and I slipped. Michael found me when he came home from work. He saved me. The words taste like copper in my mouth. I want desperately to scream at anyone who will listen what truly happened. To beg for their help. For someone to help me leave. But the fear of Michael overpowers me.

"Good evening Mrs Smith. Just popping in to do your checks," her voice is sweet, gentle. The voice of someone life has been kind to. Who hasn't faced real hardship. She gently lifts my left arm and loops the Velcro of the blood pressure monitor around. She makes notes of the numbers before checking my temperature and listening to my heart. Then it's my bandage's turn to be inspected. To make sure I'm healing as I should. If that's even possible. I flinch as the tape tears at my flesh.

"How did this happen again honey?" the nurse is younger than me, she would never understand what happened. I open my mouth to repeat the script then stop. I can't outright tell anyone what happened that day, but maybe if I change my story ever so slightly, they'll understand what I mean to tell them. It's a long shot, but the best I have.

"I was cleaning upstairs, I always do on a Wednesday, I tripped on one of Michael's shoes and fell down the stairs. Thank God he stepped through the door just as I landed. Who knows what could have happened otherwise?"

She looks at me, brows furrowed. Is it working? Has she realised? She leans in, inches from my face and lowers her tone.

"Mrs Smith, if you're in any danger you can tell us. We'll protect you and get you help,"

I start to speak, my heart soaring at the fact she's starting to get it but a figure crossing into our path stops me dead. Michael. My throat closes up. I shake my head at her. Her eyes soften, filled with pity. We've already had the police here to investigate potential domestic violence, but Michael was able to use his charisma and charm to convince them everything was fine. That I'd simply had a dizzy spell and fainted. That was the end of it. No further discussion, there was no way I could tell them otherwise. Not with Michael squeezing my hand in warning.

"Good news darling. They're discharging you in the morning. You get to be back home where you belong,"

I fake a smile. I want out of this hospital bed, but that house isn't my home anymore. I no longer have one.