One Last Time

On December 14th, it was a car accident — a drunk driver at a red light.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ January 10th — shooting.

‘I sent her to the grocery store! That should have been me!’

The irony still haunted him. The target of the robbery was the bank next door. The unintended target of the one stray bullet as the robbers fled?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Skydiving accident: ‘Why would I agree to that?’

Cancer: ‘I should have been taking her to the doctor more often. Maybe we would have caught it earlier.’

Drowning: ‘She was so excited to try surfing.’

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Years of paranoia, caution, of watching every move they made. Decades watching her waste away.

She had been in the bathroom for half an hour. ‘Certainly,’ he convinced himself, ‘nothing wrong with that. She did say she was taking a bath.’ She had begged him to watch his show instead of taking vigil outside the door. Eventually, he’d been swayed.

Forty-five minutes later, the locked doorknob sent his heart racing.

He nearly slipped on the stained water pooling on the floor as he made way to her side, wrapped a towel round her arms and thanked the heavens he had brought his phone with him. As he lifted one hand to dial, the phone was knocked aside as he was pushed back, softly but with enough force to startle him.

Her eyes were dim — ‘tired’, his mind uselessly supplied.

Her smile, however, pulled at his strings like a fiddle-player.

“This one is mine, Arthur. Not some freak accident, not by any hand but my own.” She froze, gathering breath as she cupped his face in her hand. “You have an extraordinary gift, darling. I want you to save people as best you can, but please…”

“Ella?”

“Don’t save me. Not this time.”