All the Bitter Nights in England: A Story of Struggling Immigrants

(🎧 Audio Version) All the Bitter Nights in England: A Story of Struggling Immigrants

[📖 Prefer reading? Here's the story in script format.] ⬇

(Scene: A Quiet, Deserted Street in Birmingham, a bitterly cold winter night.)

(YOU, a man in your 40s, bundled in a thin jacket, shiver as you walk briskly down the dimly lit street. Your breath hangs in the air, and the faint sound of your footsteps echoes through the stillness.)

You: (muttering to yourself) Why didn’t I grab my thicker coat? Just a quick trip for food… I should’ve stayed home.

(You round a corner, and a tall WOMAN steps out of the shadows. She’s wearing a long coat, her figure partially hidden. Her voice breaks the silence.)

Woman: Darling… wait… darling!

(You freeze for a moment, then glance back cautiously. The Woman, in her early 40s, has a weathered face and a forced smile. Her coat hangs open slightly, revealing she’s wearing very little underneath. You turn away and quicken your pace.)

You: (thinking) A hooker. Not tonight. Not ever. It’s not safe.

(The Woman’s voice grows louder as she follows, her footsteps quickening behind you.)

Woman: Darling! Wait!

(She grabs your arm gently. You stop abruptly and turn to face her. She’s tall, with long blonde hair and a frail frame. She opens her coat slightly, revealing a black camisole beneath a thin sweater. Her smile lingers, but it’s weary, her breath visible in the freezing air.)

You: Don’t… don’t you feel cold?

Woman: No, no. I okay.

You: You sure? It’s freezing out here.

(Her English is broken, her accent thick. She gestures toward you, speaking slowly, trying to explain herself.)

You: (thinking) An immigrant, probably Eastern European. What twist of fate brought her here, talking to an Asian man like me on a freezing December night? This is bad business.

Woman: You sleep? Sleep?

(You hesitate, then raise your hands defensively, shaking your head.)

You: No money. I’m poor. Very poor.

Woman: (tilting her head) No job?

You: No job. Three months now. The factory closed.

(A silence stretches between you. Her eyes flicker with understanding, tinged with disappointment. She holds up five fingers.)

Woman: Five years. Me in England. Five years.

You: Five years? Alone?

Woman: (nodding) Yes. Alone. Children wait. Hungry.

You: You have kids?

Woman: Yes. Children. Very hungry.

(You study her face. There’s raw desperation in her voice, but your instincts scream caution. The cold seeps into your bones, yet you know she’s worse off.)

You: (thinking) A mother trying to feed her kids in a foreign country… but no. You don’t trust any strange woman in this country. Not here. Not now.

(Across the street, a MAN stands in the shadows with his hands in his pockets. He watches you intently, then glances at the Woman. A chill runs through you as he takes a step closer.)

You: I’m sorry. I can’t help you.

Woman: You sleep? You want? I no want money… just food for children.

(The silence between you grows heavy. You feel a stir of pity, but the Man across the street keeps moving closer, his presence unsettling.)

You: (stepping back) I’m sorry. I have to go.

(The Woman’s smile falters. She glances at the Man, then back at you.)

Woman: Okay.

(You turn and walk away quickly, your shoulders hunched against the cold. Behind you, faint voices echo—the Woman speaking softly in her native tongue to the Man. Their words are carried away by the wind.)

(You step into the warmth of the supermarket. The sudden heat feels almost suffocating. You glance back through the glass doors but see only the empty street.)

You: (muttering to yourself) Three years in this country, and I still feel like an outsider. Just like her.

(You pause, her words echoing in your mind.)

You: Funny thing is, she’s the first person here who’s ever called me “darling.”

(You shake your head, trying to dismiss the thought. For a moment, your mind drifts to a scenario that didn’t happen—a fantasy where you followed her, shared a night with her, learned her story, and the two of you somehow fell in love. You shake it off.)

You: (chiding yourself) Too much, Jake. You think too much.

(You walk down the aisles, grabbing what you need. The faint echo of her voice—“Darling… wait”—lingers in your mind, haunting you.)

You: (softly, singing to yourself) All the bitter nights… in England.

(You pull your hood tighter and head toward the checkout, the cold from outside still clinging to your thoughts.)

(Posted on 10.1.2025)

#StoryOfStrugglingImmigrants

"Darling! Wait!"