He slept on his back with his hands folded sparingly across his chest, similar to the way the irreversibly dead sleep. He never tossed or turned or dreamt of anything besides an ominous slate of blank emptiness.
As it was, things used to easier for him. When she still graced the earth, breathing was effortless and living was enjoyable. To him, she was everything he so desperately wished he was. She was soft and gentle, but understood when she was being mistreated. She knew how to keep people from running over her, as most do to nice people. He wanted to know how she did it, and how she always did it with a forgiving smile.
That same smile of broken miracles was tugging on her pale lips as she died. She tightened her loosening grip on his hand and used the last of her energy to whisper, “I want more time, Edmund.”
She got three more minutes worth of worthless time, and she spent them tortured in a hideous fit of shallow coughs and short breaths and bloody tears. Her hair was tacked to her forehead in sweat and tears, and her eyes were forever sealed from his as the nurse so delicately pulled the sheet over her lifeless body.
He had been told that death was beautiful. That it was a peaceful end to a sinful life.
However, they could not have been more horribly wrong: her death was painful and painful to watch.
Out of everyone who should have gotten a peaceful end, she did not.
How wrong of the world to reward its most beautiful life with such an unbeautiful death.
But the world was at least kind enough to give her a quick death. His was taking years. Thus why he slept in Death’s favorite sleeping position: on the back, body straight, hands folded across the chest. The same way she was resting now.
He was disappointed to find that he had survived the night. 667Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3jJrwPbiq7
