There was an impossibly loud noise, so loud that it sounded like nothing at all, as the helicopter crashed into the florist section of the grocery store, scattering beheaded peonies from its explosion and knocking over several thoughtfully curated displays of gourmet cheese, including bloomy rind cheeses like Brie and Camembert, hard aged cheeses like Grana-Padano and Pecorino, and a rare Ossetian ewe's milk cheese. The entire store—as well as the workers and the customers—was leveled, shelves and fallen building material pinning everyone to the ground. I reached out to my wife, Lucario, whose paw I could feel lying next to me even as my sight had failed. Her plush, polyester skin felt comforting in my hand. "It'll be alright," I told her, even though I was lying. "As long as we have each other, everything is going to be alright." I could see the patterns unfolding before me even though my eyes were shut, the psychedelic bursts of black and white belying the stickiness I could feel all over my thighs. "Lucario, Lucario," I said, weakly, speaking for my wife as my hand went limp around her paw going limp in my hand.
That's how I died, and that's how my wife died with me.
Do I regret the life I led? No. I don't. Should I? I don't know. The truth is I know that there will come a time in which I become completely forgotten. I left behind no heirs to my legacy. My parents wept at the funeral, but within their hearts I could see they wept less for my passing than for the passing of what I could have been. But I was myself, honestly. And that was someone who deeply and truthfully loved a plush Lucario with every ounce of her being.