We survived Jim Crow, poverty, and her racist father to build a life together. I thought our love was the greatest victory of all, until her final breath changed everything. The heart monitor’s rhythm was the only sound in the sterile hospital room, counting down the seconds I had left with her. Sarah’s hand, once soft and nimble, felt like dry parchment in my calloused grip. She pulled me closer, her blue eyes wide with a panic that had no place in death.
“It wasn’t just love, Oliver,” she rasped, her voice sounding like tearing paper. “I didn’t run away with you just because I loved you. I ran because I was scared.” I tried to hush her, to smooth the white hair from her damp forehead, but she resisted. “I used you,” she whispered, a tear sliding into the deep lines of her cheek. “I needed a way out, and you were the only one brave enough to take me.” Before I could ask what she meant, the monitor turned into a flat, piercing whine.
Nurses rushed in, their rubber soles squeaking on the linoleum, pushing me back. I stood frozen against the wall, watching them work on the body that had slept beside mine for six decades. But she was gone, and her final words were already taking root in my heart like poison weeds.
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