(Note – this is the continuation of the tale of the The Scribner)
“Don’t do it…” his voice quivered.
“I can’t continue on like this,” the old woman dropped her head.
“There are other options.”
The woman looked up at her husband, this man who was not yet ready to give up, not yet ready to put an end to their 60 years together. “You know that’s not true, not for me, not now… not here.” She looked down at the package in her hands.
“But how will I…” They both knew how that would end.
Theirs was a love story, one that began with fluttering hearts and heroic acts, quiet moments stolen under stars; one that had recently become a tale of fear, anger, and now death. Like all love stories, this one too would end with a broken heart.
“I’m tired of fighting,” she said, gently beginning to untie the ribbon on the package he had brought her earlier that day.
“It’s a beautiful color, isn’t it?” she said holding up the bright ribbon. He nodded.
“It’ll be fine,” she said resuming her task. She stopped, “you’ll be fine.” He put his hand over hers, a last attempt at preventing the inevitable. She gently removed it, kissed him on the cheek, and unwrapped the package.
D.E.A.T.H. – five black letters glared up at them. She gave him a small smile as she reached for the D. He watched in silence as she ate it, and then the E and the A. By T, her eyes were heavy and unable to contain her tears. He wrapped his arms around her frailty, feeling her heart beat once last time as the H took away the one and only thing that he had ever loved in his life.
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