Last year, my 400ml donation of O-negative blood saved my boss’s only son. By the hospital bed, Mrs. Thompson didn’t even glance up. “Consider yourself honored to have saved my son.” The entire family crowded around the boy, celebrating. Meanwhile, I collapsed in the hallway from anemia—yet not a single word of concern came my way. A year later, in the dead of night, my phone lit up with 78 missed calls. My boss’s voice boomed in the voicemail: “Liam needs blood urgently! You’re the only one who can save him!” I pressed the record button, then slowly replied: “Last time, I was a fool. This time? I’m not saving a jerk’s son.” My phone buzzed like crazy on the table. Seventy-eight missed calls—all from my boss. I stared at the name, my stomach twisting into knots. It was 3 a.m. I picked up my phone and tapped the latest voicemail. Mr. Thompson’s voice exploded through the speaker. “Why the hell aren’t you answering?!” “My son’s in crisis again!” “It’s cute hemolysis! The hospital says only you can save him!” “Get over here right now!” I listened, stone-faced. My finger slid to the top of the screen and hit record. Memories from last year flashed through my mind, one after another. At the hospital, the sharp smell of antiseptic hung in the air. I lay in the donor chair as they drew blood from my arm. A full 400 milliliters. The nurse said, “Your blood type is extremely rare—O-negative.” I nodded. She added, “You’re saving a child’s life. That’s a true blessing.” I didn’t say anything. Then the blood bag was wheeled away, and the nurse helped me to a recovery area, pressing a cup of sweetened water into my hand. Dizzy and lightheaded, I staggered toward the VIP ward, clinging to the wall for support. Mr. Thompson’s son was in that VIP room. The door stood ajar. Through the gap, I could see them all: Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, both sets of grandparents, clustered around the bed. A pale little boy lay there, my blood flowing into his veins through the IV line. Mrs. Thompson wiped away tears, and Mr. Thompson patted her back. They murmured, “It’s okay now. He’s going to pull through.” The room buzzed with the giddy relief of a crisis averted. No one looked towards the door, no one noticed me. I slid down the wall, too faint to stand, my throat tight with unspeakable words. Through the door crack, Mrs. Thompson’s voice drifted clearly: “Did you take care of that donor?” “Yeah, I gave her some cash. She’s gone.” “Good. Keep her away from us. She’s just an employee—expendable.” “Our son’s life is what matters.” The hallway spun, a high-pitched ring in my ears. I crumpled to the cold tile floor. As my vision faded, I watched the ward door click shut, sealing in their laughter. Mr. Thompson was still screaming through the phone: “What, are you dead? Answer me now!” I took a deep breath, then slowly replied: “Last time, I was a fool. This time? I’m not saving a single soul.”
The line went silent. I tossed my phone onto the nightstand. I flopped back onto my pillow, staring at the ceiling. It was just like this a year ago, when I woke up in that hospital room. The ceiling was white. The sheets were white too. A young nurse sat beside my bed. When she noticed I was awake, she exhaled in relief. “You passed out from anemia. Gave me quite a scare.” I tried to speak, but my throat felt like sandpaper. “Thank you.” The nurse handed me a glass of water. “My colleague found you.” “Your boss’s family is something else, let me tell you.” “Once their kid stabilized, they booked it out of here.” “Left you passed out in the hallway like yesterday’s trash.” I drank the water and slowly sat up. “They… left?” “Yep, zoomed off in their fancy cars. Real picture-perfect family.” The nurse rolled her eyes. “Oh, right—they left this for you.” She took an envelope from the bedside table. It was thin. I opened it. Five hundred dollars. My 400ml of rare, precious blood—reduced to a measly $500. The nurse spotted the envelope and her cheeks flushed with anger. “That’s absolute garbage!” “Your blood type goes for hundreds of thousands on the black market!” “Their family’s loaded, and they toss you a lousy $500?!” I squeezed the flimsy bills, forcing a smile as I stayed silent. My reaction only made the nurse more worked up. “How can you even smile right now?” “You should march right in there and demand answers!” I shook my head. “It’s fine.” What explanation could there possibly be? “It was her duty”—that one line said it all. I stayed in the hospital overnight. The next day, I checked myself out. My body felt hollow, like I might float away when I walked. I took a cab back to my apartment and stayed in bed for three days straight. On the fourth day, the company HR manager called. “You’ve been MIA for three days without filing leave.” “You planning to kiss that perfect attendance bonus goodbye?” I told her I’d been sick. The HR manager scoffed. “Donating blood isn’t an illness, last I checked.” “Mr. Thompson filled me in.” “You gave a little blood. Don’t be so dramatic.” “Get back to work. Your desk is piled high.” The call clicked off. I dragged myself back to the office, still weak as a kitten. My coworkers stared with a mix of pity, judgment, and quiet amusement. That afternoon, Mrs. Thompson showed up. She sashayed into the office in a Chanel suit, Hermès bag swinging from her arm. Heads snapped up. “Afternoon, Mrs. Thompson!” She marched straight to my desk and slammed a fruit basket down. “Donating blood isn’t a death sentence, kid. Enjoy.” With that, she spun on her heel and left. I stared at the basket. Inside: five overripe bananas and two sad apples. Total value? Maybe three bucks. That was her idea of thanks for saving her son’s life.
That month, they docked $1,000 from my paycheck. Three unexcused absences, plus a sick day, they said. And of course, my perfect attendance bonus vanished. I went to HR to fight it, but she just gave me the cold shoulder. “Company policy,” she said flatly. I scowled. “It wasn’t unexcused.” “I was donating blood for our boss’s kid.” The HR manager leaned back, arms folded. “So?” “You chose to donate. No one held a gun to your head.” “The company didn’t fire you for letting personal matters interfere with work. Count your blessings.” She finished and lowered my head, dismissing me with a wave. I stood there, blood turning to ice. Saving his son’s life was just my “personal matter,” apparently. I returned to my desk. I opened my drawer and tucked the $500 and this month’s pay stub together. I also saved a photo of Mrs. Thompson’s fruit basket on my phone. I started packing my things quietly. Mr. Thompson stepped out of his office. He noticed the cardboard box by my feet and frowned. “What do you think you’re doing?” I met his gaze. “I’m resigning.” He paused, then laughed. “You realize how tough the job market is right now?” “This is just a little misunderstanding. No need to quit over it.” I stared at him. “A misunderstanding?” The smile slid off his face. “Fine. Just get back to work.” I placed the last item in the box. Then I looked at him, enunciating clearly: “I’m resigning. Effective immediately.” My voice stayed steady. The irritation on his face finally erupted into anger. “Don’t come crawling back when you regret this!” I ignored him, picked up the box, and walked out of that office for good. Whispers erupted behind me like a wave. I kept walking. The sun blazed outside. I stood outside the office building, looking up, and breathed in the fresh air. For the next month, I took a break from job hunting to brush up on new skills. Later, I landed a new job with an amazing work environment. I’d almost forgotten about that family. Until tonight. Until those 78 missed calls. My phone started buzzing again. I hit decline. I silenced it. Then I tossed it to the foot of my bed. Finally, blessed silence.
The peace lasted less than three minutes. Then my phone started lighting up like a Christmas tree. I watched Mr. Thompson’s name flash across the screen. I answered and hit speaker, making sure the whole call recorded. “You bitch!” Mr. Thompson’s scream shredded the silence. “What was that you just said?” I stayed quiet, listening. On the other end, a woman sobbed and machines beeped frantically. Chaos. Pure, desperate chaos. That desperation felt familiar. A year ago, in that cold hallway, I’d sounded just like that. “You want money, is that it?” “Name your price! How much do you want?!” “Half a million? A million?!” “Just get here and donate, and I’ll wire the money right now!” I finally spoke up. “My blood’s worth a million now?” “Last year it was only five hundred bucks, right?” Dead silence on the other end. He sounded like he was choking on his words. After a beat, he ground out: “That was then!” “This is now!” “Cut the crap! A million—are you coming or not?!” I laughed softly. “Nope.” He was practically foaming through the phone. “Don’t act so high and mighty!” “Do you think I can’t make you disappear in this city?!” I yawned. “Mr. Thompson, don’t you remember?” “You said that exact same thing a year ago.” “And here I am, doing just fine. Remember?” His breathing turned ragged over the line. I knew every word hit him right where it hurt. Because it was all true. He had zero power over me now. Suddenly, someone else grabbed the phone. Mrs. Thompson’s shrill voice cut through: “You heartless bitch!” “How could you do this to my boy?!” I held the phone away from my ear. Her voice was like nails on a chalkboard. “Your memory’s pretty selective.” “Last year, *you* said, ‘She’s just an employee—she should be grateful.’” “Your son’s someone’s child—don’t you think I am too?” “I passed out from blood loss right outside your son’s room. Did any of you even glance my way?” Mrs. Thompson went silent. A venomous quiet took over. I could picture her face right then. Priceless. “That… that was because we were so worried…” Her voice turned wobbly, thick with sobs. “I’m sorry. We were wrong.” “Please, I’m begging you—don’t hold this against us.” “Save my son, and we’ll give you whatever you ask for.” Her little performance just made me sick. I hung up without another word. Then I blocked all their numbers. I tossed my phone aside and settled back to sleep. A few minutes later, a text popped up from an unknown number. “You think this is over?” “I’m warning you—you can’t run.” “I’ll find you, no matter what.” It was Mr. Thompson, of course. I read the text and smiled. Then I blocked that number too. Sweet dreams, Mr. Thompson. Hope your whole family sleeps well tonight.
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