For the past two months, I’d been dealing with a constant, dull pain in my lower back—especially on the left side. I assumed it was from sitting too long at my desk, so I scheduled a full abdominal ultrasound at a private clinic in Quezon City.
Everything seemed routine… until the doctor suddenly frowned.
He moved the ultrasound probe over the same area again and again, then finally spoke.
“Ms. Marissa… I need to ask you a rather sensitive question.”
I assumed it was something gynecological and smiled politely.
“Of course, doctor. Go ahead.”
He removed his glasses, looked me straight in the eyes, and asked:
“When was the last time you donated your left kidney?”
I laughed out of reflex.
But the laughter died instantly when I saw his face—
serious, tense… absolutely not joking.
“Doctor… I’ve never donated a kidney,” I stammered. “Not ever.”
He printed the ultrasound image and placed it in front of me.
“Your left kidney is missing.
The space is completely empty.
Are you absolutely sure you’ve never had abdominal surgery?”
A chill ran through my body.
The room felt like it was spinning, even though the air-conditioning was freezing.
I opened my mouth to deny it—
and then everything went black.
I fainted.
When I woke up, I was lying in the observation room.
The doctor handed me some water and spoke carefully.
“It’s possible you were operated on while unconscious… or under a type of anesthesia that prevented you from remembering.”
His words hit me like a hammer.
And suddenly—
A locked memory burst open.
THE NIGHT I ALWAYS TRIED TO FORGET
It was my 28th birthday, six years ago.
I went out drinking with friends and had far too much alcohol.
When it was time to go home, I booked a Grab ride back to my boarding house in Mandaluyong.
But sometime in the early hours of the morning, I woke up halfway—
And I wasn’t in my room.
I was in a bright white space, smelling strongly of disinfectant.
I heard voices.
“Hold her steady. This dose is strong.”
I tried to move, but my arms and legs felt heavy… useless.
Then I felt the cold sting of a needle entering my skin—
And everything went dark.
The next morning, I woke up in my own bed.
My clothes were intact.
Just a dull pain on my left side.
I convinced myself it had been nothing more than a drunk nightmare.
I even joked about it to my best friend.
“Girl, I dreamed someone was operating on me. Crazy, right?”
But now…
Everything made terrifying sense.
I HAD TO KNOW THE TRUTH
When I got home from the clinic, I ran straight to the bathroom and lifted my shirt in front of the mirror.
There it was.
Just below my left ribs—
where I had always assumed it was an old scar from an accident—
A thin, pale line about four centimeters long.
Perfectly clean.
A laparoscopic scar.
I froze.
It wasn’t a scratch.
It never was.
It was a surgical incision.
Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably.
Who did this to me?
My “friends”?
My ex-boyfriend at the time?
Or the Grab driver?
THEN CAME THE MOST TERRIFYING DETAIL
As I struggled to breathe, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A man’s voice—old, rough—spoke quietly.
“Marissa… the fact that you’re still alive is a miracle.
Don’t dig any deeper.
If you remember that night… none of them will leave you alone.”
My blood ran cold.
“Who… who are you?” I asked.
Silence.
Then he said:
