Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
She doesn’t open her eyes, she just mumbles something.
“What, babe?” I lift onto one elbow and adjust the pillow under her head. “Better?”
“The rabbit … don’t go.” Another painful moan.
I narrow my eyes at her mumbling. “Are you having a dream? Are you awake?” I kiss her forehead over and over again, unsure of what to do for her—unsure of what to do with the fear clawing at my chest.
She stills and I still with her.
No. No. No …
Then her lips part and she draws in a breath—a sharp but shallow breath like she’s been holding it.
I exhale too, feeling relieved. “Don’t scare me like that.” I kiss the corner of her mouth, lingering for seconds.
Again, she moans. It’s been this way for too long. In and out. Dancing with death. What a terrible dance it is.
She’s suffering …
This isn’t love. I’m holding on too tightly, and it’s killing her slowly. This isn’t … love.
So I say it. I say what I think one is supposed to say if they truly love someone. “It’s okay, baby.” I swallow hard as more tears fill my burning eyes. “You can go,” I whisper in her ear. “You … can … go …”
Another moan. I hate it. HATE. IT!
If God wants her so badly, then why doesn’t he just take her?
For another hour I hold her, listening to her shallow breaths, one foot in this life and one in the next. She gurgles a bit. Fucking death rattle.
I sit up and stare at the bottle of sublingual morphine on her nightstand. It’s been hours. She needs more. I don’t want her in pain. No more pain.
No.
More.
Pain.
I fill the syringe.
My shaky hand moves the syringe to her lips, the tip of it disappearing between the crease, and I slowly press the plunger.
I start to set the syringe on the nightstand, but I stop. Suzanne taught me patience, but she also taught me mercy. Refilling the syringe, more tears blur my vision.
I love her. I love her this much. I am her rock. These same words loop in my head as I give more … and more … as I give her mercy.
I lie next to my wife for the last time, and that time vanishes as I listen to her heart beat until … it doesn’t.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
I feel nothing.
“Baby?” I press my hand to her cheek.
She doesn’t move.
A silent panic snakes up my spine, wrapping itself into a noose around my neck. I rest my ear on her chest.
And I wait.
I wait for a beat.
I wait for a breath.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
I wait.
I did this. I did it for her. I was her rock, even in death. “I love you,” I whisper. “I love you this much.”
This rock is broken.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The sun shines, but I don’t feel it. As I sit in the jungle with Suzanne’s quilt over me, my family and hers mill around the house, whispering and sniffling. I’m sure they’re in pain too, but I can’t feel anything past my own gutted chest. An hour after they took her body away from me, I sent out a group text to everyone. I just sent one message to everyone in my contacts. I bet there are some people in there, like my hair stylist and a few of our favorite restaurants, who won’t know how to respond to: she died.
There’s not much for me to do. Suzanne planned everything before she died, including the music that will be played at her funeral. She asked her sister to read her favorite E.E. Cummings poem, and her friend, April, will sing something entirely too inspirational for death. I only have one job—be the grieving husband.
Done.
If I could make money grieving Suzanne, I’d be a very rich man. For a guy with many talents (or so my family and friends have always said), I think grieving is my new profession. I pride myself on being the best at whatever I set out to do. Watch out, world, I’m going to be a fucking pro at this.
No need to eat.
No need to shower.
No need to speak.
No need to move.
If I stop breathing … so be it.
At the moment, I kinda hate my life and all life in general. Suzanne would be disappointed at my lack of strength and perseverance. Fuck it. I’ll persevere in my next life. In the meantime, some dead chick named Tara is reuniting with my wife. She’s probably already forgotten about me.
The ironic part? Nobody is taking the time to even acknowledge me. I haven’t been asked to do anything. No questions about plans. Just a wide perimeter of space. Ten bucks says Suzanne left this part in her post-death instructions as well.
Leave Zach alone. He’s a pathetic pussy who will try to crawl into a ball and die. Give him a few days, then shove him into the shower and put him in that gray suit that looks so handsome on him. He wears black for work, and I don’t want him to look like he’s grieving. It’s not a funeral. It’s a celebration of life.