Chapter 3 Helena

Helena awoke to the sound of frantic voices and the harsh glow of hospital lights. She felt disoriented, as though emerging from a long, suffocating darkness. The first thing she noticed was the urgency in the room. Doctors and nurses hovered over a bed, their movements hurried and desperate. It took her a moment to realize that the body on the bed was hers.

Panic surged through her. She watched in stunned silence as the medical team worked feverishly, their faces tight with concentration. One of the nurses, a young woman with kind eyes, glanced at Helena's chart and whispered something to a doctor. Helena strained to hear.

"She's a cancer patient at St. Francis. Stage four. Her organs are failing."

The doctor nodded grimly. "We're losing her. Prepare to call it."

Helena's heart ached as she watched them battle for her life. She wanted to reach out, to tell them not to give up. But when she moved, she realised with a jolt that her hand passed through the bed rail. She looked down at herself and saw that her body was faint, almost translucent.

"No," she whispered, her voice a ghostly echo that no one could hear. "This can't be happening."

The room around her began to blur, the edges of reality fraying as her panic intensified. She felt herself growing lighter, more insubstantial. The doctors' voices became a distant hum, and the room seemed to stretch and distort. Helena stumbled back, her movements unsteady. She felt dizzy, disoriented, and an overwhelming sadness washed over her.

One of the nurses stepped back, her face pale. "Time of death, 11:47 PM."

The room fell silent, the fight over. The doctors and nurses exchanged looks of defeat before beginning the somber task of cleaning up. Helena watched, a silent witness to her own death. She couldn't comprehend it. She was dead. Truly dead. And now, as a ghost, she was condemned to watch as her life ended without fanfare or recognition.

She saw the nurse gently place her shoes and handbag into a plastic bag. The sight of those familiar items, so mundane and personal, brought a fresh wave of grief. Helena moved toward the bed, reaching out to touch her own lifeless hand, but her fingers slipped through it like mist.

The realisation hit her with crushing force. She was no longer part of the living world. People passed through her, oblivious to her presence. Her body was immaterial, a mere shadow of what it once was.

Suddenly, the door to the room opened, and Helena saw Harris, the security guard. He looked shaken, his usual calm demeanour replaced by a look of deep distress. He spoke to one of the doctors.

"Do you know what happened?" Harris asked, his voice trembling.

The doctor shook his head. "All we know is that she was hit by a car. Witnesses said a woman tried to save her, but it was too late."

Helena's anger flared. "No! That's not true! Gabrielle pushed me!" she screamed, but no sound came out. Her words went unheard, her voice as insubstantial as her body.

The nurse nodded sympathetically. "It was Gabrielle, the French model. She tried to pull Mrs. Morrison out of the way, but the car couldn't stop in time."

Helena's fury intensified. "Lies! She didn't try to save me! She killed me!" she shouted, but again, no one responded. They couldn't hear her. She was a ghost, trapped in this purgatory of misunderstanding and deceit.

She watched helplessly as they discussed her fate, each word twisting the knife of betrayal deeper into her heart. Gabrielle was being painted as a heroine, while Helena was left to languish in this silent, unseen torment. Her family was gone, her husband never cared for her, and now her enemy was getting everything she had ever wanted.

She stepped back, her ghostly form trembling with rage and sorrow. She retreated to a corner of the room, collapsing onto the floor. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to find some semblance of comfort in this new, cold existence. The reality of her situation pressed down on her, a crushing weight of despair.

Helena closed her eyes, the tears she couldn't shed burning in her chest. She was dead, alone, and betrayed. The life she had fought so hard to live had been stolen from her in an instant, and now she was left to wander in this shadowy, unfeeling world.

___

Helena opened her eyes, her surroundings a blur of sterile white. She blinked, disoriented, and tried to gather her thoughts. For a moment, she believed she had simply fainted, but a strange sensation in her belly-a laugh, almost-reminded her of her ethereal state. The realization hit her anew with force: she was a ghost.

A mix of frustration and disbelief bubbled up inside her, and she let out a hollow laugh. "A fucking ghost," she muttered to herself. The absurdity of it all made her want to scream, but instead, she stayed sitting on the floor, her mind a whirlpool of anguish and confusion.

As her vision cleared, she looked around and saw she was in a large, empty room. The walls, the floor, everything was an unblemished white. There were no windows, no doors, and no apparent source of light, yet the room was bathed in a soft, diffused glow. Helena felt a deep certainty that this place was neither Paradise nor Hell. It was something else entirely.

She didn't feel like exploring. The weight of her recent experiences pressed down on her, and she preferred to remain on the floor, consumed by her turmoil. Minutes, or perhaps hours, passed in silence. Her thoughts were a chaotic mess, veering from anger at Gabrielle to sorrow over her own untimely death, and finally settling into a numb resignation.

The silence was broken by a soft whooshing sound. Helena looked up and saw someone entering the room, or rather, appearing in it. The figure was tall and strikingly beautiful, with a grace that seemed otherworldly. Her eyes were a piercing grey, and her expression was calm, almost serene. She gestured with her hands, and a table and two chairs materialized out of thin air.

The woman sat down and opened a book that seemed to shimmer in the soft light. She glanced at Helena with a curious, almost puzzled expression. "I rarely have an adult with such a small balance of sins and virtues," she murmured to herself, flipping through the pages of her book. She looked up, her gaze piercing. "How old are you?"

Helena struggled to find her voice. "I'm... I was 32," she said, her words sounding hollow to her own ears. She couldn't shake the surreal feeling of the situation, and she had no idea what was going on.

The woman raised an eyebrow and continued to read. "Your life is rather... unremarkable," she said, not unkindly. "Very few notable sins, and a modest collection of virtues. Quite unusual."

Helena felt a spark of indignation. "Unremarkable? I was a person. I had a life, a job, friends..."

The woman looked at her, her grey eyes softening slightly. "I did not mean to offend. Every life has its own story, its own worth. I simply meant that your record is... clean. It makes you an anomaly in this place."

"Where am I?" Helena asked, her voice trembling. "What is this place?"

The woman closed her book and leaned back in her chair. "This is a waiting room of sorts. A place for souls who are neither ready for Heaven nor condemned to Hell. It is a space for reflection, for understanding one's life and the transition that comes next."

Helena felt a wave of despair wash over her. "So I'm just... stuck here?"

"For the moment," the woman replied. "You see, your death was... abrupt. Violent. It has left you with unresolved issues, a strong emotional tether to the world you left behind. This is why you are here."

Helena's mind raced. "I was killed," she said, her voice growing stronger. "Gabrielle pushed me. She wanted me out of the way."

The woman nodded. "I see. Such strong emotions can indeed anchor a soul, preventing it from moving on. However, there is something else..."

"What do you mean?" Helena asked, her voice tinged with both fear and curiosity.

The woman leaned forward, her expression thoughtful. "There is a loophole. You were not supposed to die in this manner. Your death was meant to happen differently, naturally. This violent end has disrupted the order of things."

Helena stared at her, the words sinking in slowly. "A loophole?"

"Yes," the woman said, her tone measured. "Because of this, you have an opportunity. You can go back and try to earn your death the way it was meant to be."

Helena felt a jolt of confusion and fear. "Go back? But I... I don't know if I want to go back. It was so painful..."

The woman's expression turned to one of surprise. "You don't want to go back? Most humans would seize the chance to live again, to right the wrongs, to finish what they started."

Helena shook her head, the weight of her emotions bearing down on her. "I've lost everything. My family is gone, my husband never loved me, and Gabrielle... she's taken everything I ever wanted. Going back feels... pointless."

The woman's gaze softened. She reached out and touched Helena's cheek gently. "I see. Your pain is profound. But perhaps there is more for you to discover, more to life than what you have experienced. Sometimes, a second chance can reveal new paths, new possibilities."

Helena closed her eyes, a tearless sob shuddering through her. She felt the woman's touch, warm and comforting, and for a moment, she allowed herself to hope.

"Sleep now," the woman whispered, her voice a soothing balm. "You may not remember much, but you will have a second chance at life. Don't waste it."

As the words echoed in her mind, Helena felt herself drifting into a deep, dreamless sleep. The last thing she heard was the woman's voice, filled with a gentle resolve. "Find your path to your rightful, Helena."

And then, darkness took her.