Cruising through my computer, I found this short story I wrote five years ago. I’d completely forgot about it. It’s interesting to compare how I wrote then, to how I write now. What a time warp!
Her face contorted into jagged lines of pain. Red liquid dripped from the knife clutched in her hand by her abdomen. The same knife she plunged into herself not a moment earlier. She wrapped her other arm around her stomach as the knife clattered to the tile floor. She soon followed, crumpling like paper to the ground.
I rushed to her, my face still painted with horror. As she drew sharp breathes I cradled her body to my chest. I glanced down and gently moved her hand from the wound, her crimson blood flowed from the gash like a river, and I knew she would not make it.
Her eyes fluttered, and between waves of pain she whispered “Don’t worry about me now… I did this for you. Be happy.”
Shock must have colored my features because she repeated her words again, “Don’t worry, be happy.” She moved her hand to my face, cupping her palm against my cheek.
She jerked suddenly, her eyes rolling back. The pool of red was large now, circling my knees. A gurgle escaped her lips, and I knew only moments, maybe seconds were all she had left, so I held her closer.
I could feel her heart beat slowing, calming until it just quivered.
With one last thud, her heart stopped, her movements stilled and her hand dropped from my cheek. I knew the only person I loved was gone.