As Inescapable as Death

Originally written by B.B., April 24, 2026.

(Translated to English with AI assistance, October, 2026)

“Why do we live? Because living is inescapable as death.”

Mrs. Hawthorne woke that morning feeling different.

She was exhausted. She could barely move her fingers, and she had to fight to keep her eyelids open. Her whole body burned. The pain sharpened until she wanted to scream, to make any sound at all, but her voice stayed lodged inside her.

It felt as though something unseen and heavy were sitting on her. A dark presence pressed her into the mattress, closed its hands around her throat, and squeezed until she could not breathe, letting go only when she was nearly gone.

After countless attempts, she managed to keep her eyes open. Her vision was blurred, as if she were looking at the world, her own world, through fogged glass.

Her gaze fell on the windows beside the bed. The grays there caught the light, glowed, and slowly reddened. Weary as she was, she refused to look away from the brightening sky, the rising sun, the birds.

Out there, beyond the windows her room had named its gateway to freedom, was life. Birds whose names she had never learned drew wide, loose circles in the air. The sun climbed over the city and lit the streets as it never had before. The streets were crowded, as she had expected. People jostled shoulder to shoulder and hurried in every direction. Lovers held hands, embraced, kissed. Small children gripped their mothers’ hands, refusing to be crushed or to lose one another in the flood.

She was alone in her bedroom, far from the crowd and ruled by silence, yet the throng pressed in on her anyway. Her spacious room seemed to shrink around her, the good air in it running thin.

Then, all at once, she was standing in the middle of the square, where the crowd moved fastest and laughter tangled with screams. Caught between dream and waking, she heard a dog growling as it ran, the ragged breathing of strangers, the endless shouts of street vendors, the hard slap of footsteps.

A tall, black, old-fashioned car turned into the street. It moved without control and without any hope of stopping, splitting the crowd in two. People panicked. Some ducked into buildings; others fled to the farthest corners of the pavement and watched. The tires slid over the asphalt with a thin, high whine, and the engine grew louder.

Mrs. Hawthorne went still. As the blackness bore down on her, she simply stood there. She was the center of the chaos, and she was about to die. While fear turned to horror all around her, she waited, upright and helpless.

She must have had seconds left, fifteen at most. For a moment she wondered why, with death so close, no one tried to do anything. Why was everyone content to watch?

Then it all happened at once. Women screamed. Children wailed without pause, and their cries ran into her own.

For the first time in years, she hurt this deeply. She wanted to die, and quickly. She wanted to be free of her wounds, to let her suffering go into the sky. Somewhere in the middle of her screaming, she begged God, silently.

Lying in her warm bed, she could still feel the cold hardness of the asphalt. A spring breeze drifted through the window and filled the room, but what reached her nose was the thick, choking smell of blood.

She jerked upright.

She turned her eyes away from the windows. She did not want to look at the streets or remember any more. To face the past was to suffer. She tipped her head back and bit her lip.

She looked around the room where she had spent the last years of her life, resting, sleeping, dressing each day. Everything stood where she remembered it: the leather-bound books, the porcelain figurines, the antique clocks, each in its place. This time the order unsettled her. It felt like too much.

She did not feel she belonged to it, but the room was calm and slow, almost soothing. Sunlight filtered through the white tulle and caught the great chandelier, and the crystals scattered it into a soft glow. A few steps from her bed stood her beloved piano, and its stillness spread through the room like a held breath.

The mahogany body was dark and fine-scratched, and the marks told of years of use. She looked at the wooden lid over the ivory keys. In her mind she saw her mother’s hands, black and white, dancing over the hidden keys.

She remembered the hours she had spent playing, and the days she had fallen asleep with her head on that lid. For a moment she felt again the peace she had known when she gave herself to the music.

The piano was hers: the refuge of her loneliness, the comfort of her hurt. After her mother’s tragic death, she had sat down at the keys out of a wish and a dream, hoping to feel a little closer to her, and had set herself to learn the language of music.

In time it became her passion. It rose in her mind even in the quietest hours of the day, and she longed for the moment she would be with it again. She sat at the keys whenever she could. Alone with the piano, she lost track of the hours while the rest of the world faded until only the music remained.

She wanted to get out of bed, sit on the wooden stool, and fill herself with melody. That was how she could quiet the noise in her mind. But she was drained, and it did not seem possible. Even breathing lying down was hard; she could not risk walking.

She pitied herself. Here she lay at the edge of death, too weak to reach a piano a few steps away. The wretched, fragile state she was in filled her with a heavy unease.

An ache she could no longer bear coiled in her chest. Life had taken everything she valued. What she had lost, and what she would never have, pierced her heart, and the silence of the room made her loneliness plain.

When she turned to the right, she noticed a small glass bottle on the nightstand. Through the dark glass she could make out the pale shadows of pills. The paper label had yellowed, its edges curling, the writing worn away in places.

She picked it up slowly and began to read. At the top, a warning said the medicine should be taken only on a doctor’s advice. Below it, the daily dose must not be exceeded, and the side effects of taking too much were printed in dark, heavy type:

Dizziness, loss of appetite, disturbed perception, ringing in the ears, drowsiness.

Reading this was enough to make her move. She carefully twisted off the metal cap, tipped the bottle, and let the colored pills roll into her palm. She watched them for a moment, believing they might quiet some of the turmoil inside her.

As she took them into her mouth one by one, she wished the aching in her body would ease. She hoped the hurt in her heart would fade and her soul would find some peace. Her eyes slowly closed. She wanted to sleep, only to sleep, and to forget.

Hours passed. The light in the streets gave way to shadow. When she woke, she found that apart from the gentle touch of moonlight on her bed, the room had sunk into darkness.

She sat up abruptly, drew her knees toward her, and wrapped her arms around them, holding herself.

She stayed there in the dark for a few seconds, waiting. She did not know why she had stopped or what she was waiting for. She only knew she needed to be held. For a long time, a very long time, no one had put their arms around her.

She freed her left arm and reached for the gas lamp on the wall. The metal was cold under her fingers, the chill of the whole night stored in it. She carefully turned the wick and lit the lamp, and a pale glow filled the room. Something stirred in her dead heart, and a faint gleam came into eyes that had stopped shining long ago. She had been wrong. In this bedroom, where everything seemed false to her, she had not been abandoned to death. Her Mary, her one and only little friend, was sitting right there at the foot of the bed.

Mary was a sixteen-year-old maid. She had come to Hawthorne Manor four years ago, at only twelve. She spent her days mostly in the kitchen and the corridors, rising early to tidy the rooms and scrub the stairs.

She was mature for her age. The manor had taught her silence, patience, and caution early. She tried to muffle her footsteps in its corridors, not wanting to make noise and disturb the order of that stern, cold house.

Mrs. Hawthorne looked at her. Her fair, smooth skin was framed by dark brown hair that fell in soft waves over her shoulders. Her eyes were large and lively, and her strong, dark eyebrows gave her gaze depth.

Mary’s full lips parted. “Are you feeling better, Mrs. Hawthorne?”

Mrs. Hawthorne hesitated. “I... yes. I think I am.” She raised her eyebrows. “Mary, my girl, what are you doing in my bedroom in the middle of the night?”

“The doctors asked me to look in on you.”

“Then tell them I am just as they see me: sick and tired.”

Mary studied her for a while: the faded eyes, the bruised shadows beneath them, the swollen cheeks. She winced.

“Is it as bad as that?” Mrs. Hawthorne asked in a cracked voice.

Mary did not answer. “If you would like to be alone, I can go.”

“No, no, don’t go! Come here.”

Mary got up and walked to the wooden chair beside the bed. She sat on its dark red cushion and leaned back against the carved frame.

“What’s wrong, Mrs. Hawthorne?” she asked.

“What isn’t!” She laughed. “I ache everywhere, and it stabs at my chest. I suppose I’m going to die!”

Silence settled over the room. The gaslight flickered on the walls, and only the sound of heavy breathing moved through it. For what felt like forever, neither of them spoke.

Mary fixed her eyes on Mrs. Hawthorne’s, as if she had only now noticed the feelings hidden in them. It was she who broke the silence.

“Mrs. Hawthorne, would you tell me your story?”

“My story? You’re curious about my life?”

Mary nodded.

Mrs. Hawthorne did not know what to say. Then she agreed, perhaps out of pity for this orphan girl whose life had been one long struggle, perhaps out of loyalty to her friendship, or perhaps simply because, just once, she wanted to be understood.

She sat up, cleared her throat, and coughed a few times. Then, in a voice thinner than the crackle of the lamp, she began.

“I opened my eyes thirty-two years ago, on an autumn morning when fog lay over the streets of London, in Kensington, under my father’s icy stare.”

She narrowed her eyes. Faded pictures of her childhood came slowly into view.

“My parents wore the proud armor of the gentry. They were among the few wealthy families in the district. And yet their hands never got dirty. They did not pull weeds from the garden like Mr. Green, or tend the fire like Mrs. Wood. All day they only sat and ate. I wondered where our money came from, and one day I couldn’t hold back and asked my mother. She said we owned fertile land in the far countryside, and that was where it came from. I didn’t understand her answer. I couldn’t see why Mr. Green or Mrs. Wood chose to work so hard, or why they didn’t simply become landowners like us.”

Mary leaned forward in her chair. She could hear the old, childlike wonder in Mrs. Hawthorne’s voice.

“I spent my childhood alone in a great house. My father paid me little attention; we saw each other only from meal to meal. And at the table he mostly quarreled with my mother and ignored me. What I mean is, he never really saw me at all.

It was not much different with my mother. She was gracious and kind to strangers, but with me she became someone else. Unlike other girls, I couldn’t thread a needle or sew. I didn’t know how to sit properly, or laugh properly, or speak properly. In her eyes I was a hopeless girl who didn’t deserve to be a lady. She scolded me constantly and complained that I couldn’t do anything right.

They never said so, but I knew my parents hated me and were ashamed of me. And, Mary, do you know? Even when they don’t show it, it is never easy for a child to be a disappointment.”

Mrs. Hawthorne glanced at the empty pill bottle beside her, as though she knew the only way to dull the hurt was to forget the past.

“Years went by like that, one after another. I had grown used to their indifference. I had learned to live with my father’s apathy and my mother’s anger. I firmly believed my life would always go on this way, until one Saturday morning when my mother burst into my room in a panic.

Even as a child, I knew something was wrong. Fear was on her face; her lips were drawn tight and her eyes had gone dull. When I asked what had happened, she didn’t answer. She couldn’t hear me. She hushed me, took my hand, and squeezed my fingers until it hurt.

I was about to scream for my father when sounds came flooding up from downstairs. Hoarse women’s laughter echoed off the walls. My mother began to cry.

My father was cheating on her.”

Mrs. Hawthorne swallowed.

“A day or two later, my mother did not come to dinner. When I went to her room to check on her, she had fallen ill. She looked worn out and spent. An IV was attached to her arm. Her lips curled when she saw me, but her eyes confessed, silently and without hope, a truth that couldn’t be hidden:

I will die soon.

She spent her last days in her room, away from me and my father, playing the piano. She played for hours, for days without stopping, repeating the same melodies over and over, never tiring, never giving up. She let no one in, not me, not my father. But I would press my ear to the door and listen in secret. I locked every one of those notes away in my mind.”

Mrs. Hawthorne’s chest tightened. Mary sensed the sadness that had settled over the room. To change the subject, she said, “And Mr. Hawthorne? How did you meet him?”

“Mr. Hawthorne?” Mrs. Hawthorne repeated, her expression unreadable. Her mind was still with her mother. After Mary nodded, she began.

“In my youth I often went to the opera. At one performance, a sweet-smelling young man sat beside me. That was Mr. Hawthorne. He didn’t catch my attention at first, because I was watching the stage. But halfway through, he bumped my arm and apologized, and I noticed him: his clean features, his high cheekbones. Dear God, Mary, he was beautiful. More beautiful than a man had any right to be. My heart stirred, and it must have in his as well, because he invited me to dinner that evening.

After my father, and my mother, whose death he had caused, if only indirectly, I never thought I would marry. But the short conversations I had with him changed my mind. I fell in love, and I married him. Though I sometimes feared living out my mother’s fate, I trusted him.”

She laid her hands on her knees. Her fingers trembled as though moving over the keys of an invisible piano.

“You know the rest. He never fell short toward me, never wronged me. But I failed at the most important duty expected of a wife. I couldn’t give him a child. He never threw my failure in my face, but with every attempt, and every disappointment that followed, he drew further away. He spent more time out of the house and spoke to me less. I don’t blame him for the distance between us, but...”

Her voice shook. She gathered herself to go on.

“I only wish that now, in these hours when I am face to face with death, he did not hold such anger toward me that it keeps him from visiting.”

She smiled bitterly.

Mary returned the woman’s weary smile.

Mrs. Hawthorne spoke with sudden brightness. “Besides, I’m not sad. Why should I be? My one true friend is with me. I’m not alone. I won’t leave this world alone.”

Her eyes filled.

“Do you know, Mary, you are my best friend! When you are beside me, the world is easier to bear, and brighter, and time seems to pass faster.” Her voice faded. Her eyes began to stare at nothing and her hands to tremble.

“Mrs. Hawthorne, are you all right? I’m calling the doctor!”

“No... no, Mary, there’s no need. I only felt dizzy for a moment.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine.” She squared her shoulders.

“Very well.” Mary was quiet for a second or two. “In that case, may I ask you one last question?”

“Of course, but first I have a request of my own.”

“What is it?”

“Would you play the piano for me? One last time, I want to feel music. I want it in my mind and in my body, and I want to die remembering its small, delicate vibrations.”

“No, no, I...” Mary hesitated. “I can’t, Mrs. Hawthorne.”

“Ah. I see. It’s all right.”

“Please don’t be hurt. I would love to, truly, but there is a terrible pain in my back. My neck and shoulders ache as if thousands of needles were going into them. I must have strained something the other day.”

“You overworked yourself again while cleaning, didn’t you?” said Mrs. Hawthorne, raising her eyebrows.

Mary blinked her agreement.

“Well, I understand.” Her shoulders sank. She could not push her Mary, but the knowledge that she would never hear those melodies again went into her like a dagger.

Her breath caught, and a ringing started in her ears. She tried not to show it, because some pains grow when they are spoken.

“What was it you wanted to ask, my girl?”

“What happened to you, Mrs. Hawthorne? How did you come to be like this?”

Mrs. Hawthorne let out words that left the taste of blood in her mouth.

“Two mornings ago,” she said, coughing, “it was an ordinary morning. The sun had risen as usual, and the clouds were breaking apart across the sky. Everything was as it should be.

“I was crossing the square in a hurry. It was quiet. The smell of fresh bread drifted through the air, and the clock tower in the distance ticked in time with my steps. Then, when I least expected it, a black car appeared in front of me, and I knew I was going to die...”

Mary froze in her seat. The bright spark in her eyes dulled in the gaslight.

“I didn’t want to run, Mary. I didn’t want to run from my fate, from my death. I shut my eyes and waited for the darkness to come and take me. I kept them shut until death touched me.”

Her voice shook.

“The old car slid over me. Pain washed through my body. My neck fell back at an unnatural angle, and the shock of the blow rose through my bones.”

A tear ran down her cheek.

“Death had a smell, a bitter, metallic smell. It stung the bridge of my nose, and every breath I drew turned my stomach.”

She tried to steady her breathing. “Dear Mary, do you know what I understand now, looking back on that day?”

Mary waited for the exhausted woman to go on.

“People live trusting that when they wake they will be able to sleep again, and that when they lie down they will rise in the morning. A person who loses that trust can’t live at all. Every breath begins to prick the skin and burn the lungs. What makes death terrible isn’t that it is an ending. It’s that it is unexpected.”

“You’re right, Mrs. Hawthorne, how beautifully you put it! But please let me correct one mistake, one lie, in what you’ve told me.”

Mrs. Hawthorne stiffened.

“What lie?”

“In the circumstances you describe, with a large car running you down and that burning pain in your neck and bones, there is almost no chance you would have lived.”

“Perhaps... But I am still alive.”

“Yes. You’re alive because the car didn’t hit you.”

“Whom did it hit, then?”

“Me.”

The sick woman stared at her.

“Come now, Mrs. Hawthorne. Have you really forgotten why you took the colored pills?” said Mary.

Something sharp pierced her mind. Her breath came unevenly, and then, all at once, she remembered. As the black car bore down on her, she saw the driver notice Mary and swerve toward her on purpose. She saw him choose the little maid’s death over her own.

Her throat closed. As that day’s screams replayed in her head, she understood, bitterly:

She had not come back from death. The terrible blackness had never touched her, but it had torn away her one dear friend.

She looked at the girl sitting so lightly in the chair, like a shadow.

“You’re not real, are you, Mary?” she asked, her voice cracking.

“What is real, Mrs. Hawthorne?” Mary rose from the chair and walked toward the door, her sorrowful eyes never leaving the woman.

On the threshold she paused. “Do you know what is as inescapable as death?”

“What?”

“Living.”

Mary’s image faded in the flickering gaslight. In the merciless cold of the room, Mrs. Hawthorne understood that she had been alone from the very beginning. She searched her fingertips for Mary’s warmth, but all they found was sheets soaked with sweat.

She stopped for a moment. She could not take her eyes off the doorway; she kept staring, as if her little friend might appear again. Minutes passed. She began to laugh. She laughed without pause until the laughter turned into anguished cries, but she never saw Mary again.

Just then the door flew open, and Mr. Hawthorne rushed in, frantic. He crossed the distance of years in a single stride and came to his wife.

“Darling, are you all right?” he asked.

She could resist no longer. The shuddering scream that had knotted in her throat broke loose, and she began to sob, struggling for breath. She saw her husband’s lips moving and heard his voice, but could not make sense of the words. They vanished before they reached her.

The sea of ice between them was still there, but now both of them were drowning.

For a moment she put her hand on her belly and begged forgiveness, ashamed of the future she could never give him. The next, she looked around, asked where her Mary had gone, and cried out in anger.

Mr. Hawthorne held his wife tightly. In his world there was no unfinished future and nothing lacking in her; the only truth was the woman in his arms. He did not let go until her trembling stopped and the storm in her had calmed.

Held up by the warmth of her husband’s arms, she looked one last time toward the window, at the stars. Perhaps Mary was there, in one of them. One day they would surely be together again. She closed her eyes, and as Mary’s smile appeared in her mind, her exhaustion settled over her, and she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.