(I was playing with my lighter the other day and a thought for an extremely short drabble crossed my mind. Hope you like it!)
He sat, slumped back in his chair, staring at them. They were mocking him. Since the day he promised her that he would stop, they mocked him. He remembered the conversation well.
"I'm going to run a few more tests... see what comes up." he said.
He went to walk away, suppress it again, the anguish, the pain, and then she called his name. And he turned and looked dead into her eyes. She said.
"Don't ever let yourself get to the point that I am at now, throw them out." She gestured towards what he held in his hand. "My path to here was different, but there are many ways to get to this, you're going down one of those ways. Don't." She sounded solemn, her head low and her eyes peering up at him from beneath her eyebrows.
"Promise me." It wasn't a demand, it was a plea. He knew that she knew this pain more than anyone. To know she was leaving what little she had gained.
He nodded his head, understanding.
"I promise..." After that he walked away.
She died the next day. Her third time fighting a war she couldn't see, and she lost.
The first time, she was saved by a miracle. The second time, by love. But for the third time, nothing was there to save her. Her love gone, her miracle a one timer.
But he still sat there, letting them mock him. He wanted to just pick one up and breathe in it's toxins, never letting the breath out. He wanted it to kill him, he wanted to know how it felt. But he didn't pick one up. He refused to, because he had promised her that he would stop. It was a promise he intended to keep, even if it meant the end of his life.
(Bit depressing I think, but meaningful all the same. Review Please.)