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There is a faint sound.
A warning sound, it sends chills throughout me—I know it’s all about to end.
Any ounce of hope, a miracle, is fading like the light in his eyes.
His eyes, they reflect death.
It’s only a matter of hours, minutes, even seconds, and he’ll be gone. Unable to be seen, touched, or heard, and being six feet under the ground, are his only destiny.
The man in the stark white coat gently places his hand on my arm. With a sympathetic glance, his calm voice speaks the inevitable. “Mrs. Evans, I think it’s time you said goodbye to your husband.”
My face is expressionless unlike everyone else in the corridor. My dad and brother have bloodshot eyes, their tears barely contained in a state of anguish. My mom is inconsolable, rocking our son back and forth in an attempt to shield him from the grief surrounding us.
If only someone could do that for me.
Soon, he will be only my son.
My brother is by my side, urging me forward, trying to encourage me to enter the room, pay my final respects to my husband. Following his lead, I enter the room, and immediately my eyes watch him for what could be the very last time. He is pale, gaunt, and sick. The remaining strands of his once-luscious locks are barely visible. Vibrant blue eyes have morphed into dull gray orbs shadowed by deep circles. His lips are a light shade of blue… blue…
I’m standing at his bedside.
With no strength to lift his hand, his ailing attempt to touch me one last time becomes too hard, and he gives up, defeated.
His own fault.
He should’ve fought. For us, for life.
Elijah chose this path. He refused any treatment which could’ve saved him. Instead, our love, our son, wasn’t worth the fight.
With a strained voice, he mutters his final words, “I did this for us. You deserve a life with someone who will see it through with you till the very end. Don’t hate me, Adriana… please…”
I want to scream, punch him in the face, but my emotions are brutally interrupted, the beep flat-lines followed by panic in the room. The voices echo as the scene before me becomes a blur—a frantic scramble to save him one last time.
Three… two… one… Clear!
His body jerks. Nothing.
Repeat… repeat… repeat.
Time is lost on me.
The doctor looks at the nurse, shaking his head slowly. At this moment, actions speak louder than words. The pity in their eyes, the removal of their masks, the impending glance at the clock.
“Time of death… 11:53 p.m.”
The sobs are achingly loud, piercing the drum of my ear.
They don’t belong to me.
I feel his arms wrap around me. My brother is trying to protect me. He pulls me in, smothering my face into his suit jacket. His warm tears fall freely onto my cold cheeks, blurring the vision of my husband being covered by a blanket.
