Young Writers Society

Sometimes, when the pain was too potent, he'd teeter to the shelf in the corner, run the tip of his finger along the ragged spines of his stories, and withdraw a volume. When he made it back to his chair, he'd sip his drink, breathe forcedly, and crack open his book.

No matter how much he was hurting, the books would ease the pain. He took confidence in the knowledge that they would; they hadn't failed him yet. They killed the pain without side-effects, blotting it out until he stopped reading. Then, of course, the pain returned in powerful waves, but that was to be expected. Pain was part of his life now; he'd accepted it.

He'd written the books before she'd left, back in the "good old days," as his Grandfather Murphy used to say. He'dhad some very good days, back when she was around to share them with him. One of his most treasured memories was sitting in an Adirondack chair on the shores of a pond with her in his lap, her dress draped across his knees, her arm around his shoulders. They'd loved each other in a way that doomed them from the first minute they knew they had. After all, life doesn't go on forever, and they understood that death would separate them from each other's arms one day.

"But not now," he used to say, before pushing a stray strand of hair off of her forehead and tucking it behind her ears. She'd always nod emphatically, but he used to fancy that she knew something he didn't.

Perhaps she had, but it didn't matter anymore. She wouldn't be able to tell him.

Tonight, he was sitting in his chair, cradling a dog-eared book in his lap, his eyes trailing over the words, savoring them. They were all inspired by her. He'd always secretly felt that the reason they'd become best-sellers was the fact that he'd written them about her. After all, everyone knew that he was an unpleasant, undesirable person, but she was entirely different. Everyone loved her.

He read the last sentence aloud to himself.

"And when the notes of the last song shivered and died out, she smiled."

And she had. When she was finally fading, when the sickness had sent her gliding to the point of no return, she'd had one last request.

"Sing to me. One last time."

And he had. He'd sang her her favorite song, trying to be strong and smile for her, but all he'd managed to come up with was crooked twist of his mouth and a curtain of tears dribbling down his face. When he'd finished, she'd smiled peacefully, leaving the world with one last gift. It was her way.

He closed the book quickly, regretting that he'd let himself go so far. As soon as he did, the pain returned in full force. But tonight, he smiled. It had been her way, and tonight, it would be his.