Origins

His eyesight began to blur. He was not afraid of this moment, but he didn’t want her to see it. Not this grotesque and unstoppable process. She was expected to return soon, operating on autopilot for whatever the evening at home required. She would open the door, let him sleep his afternoon nap in his armchair, and go on to make dinner just for the two of them. Only once all the preparations were done—the table set and the vodka poured—would she come to wake him.

He could not fight it. He had lost the war against them. He had no idea when or how they managed to slip poison into his food or drink, but it was clear to him that they had. For a while now, he knew he would not be able to evade punishment forever. Even so, he had eluded them for a long time, changing the names in stories or writing under an alias.

He leaned over the table and wrote the last thing he would ever write. A message to his children, who lived so far away. Children he did not raise. He asked for forgiveness, begged them to understand that guilt had haunted him all these years. So much guilt. But he had been too weak to fight them. Weak. Lazy. Selfish. And yet, he truly loved them, in the only way he knew how: selfishly, from afar.

He wrote about them. Especially about his eldest, with the cobalt-blue eyes. Every character he loved in his stories had been named after her. Every book he wrote, even if the dedication never saw the light of day, was secretly dedicated to her. Even if the book itself had never been published.

Now, in his final moments, his last words were for them, too. He kept writing as long as he had the strength to hold the pen:

"I hope that the luck fate allotted me, which I failed to take advantage of, will come to you. I hope your mother forgives me and understands that I could not have done otherwise. I hope you are happy."

He did not write a date or sign the letter. He simply folded the page and tucked it into the pile of papers on the desk. He blinked several times, trying to clear the blurring with sheer willpower. The final moments were approaching.

He sat down in his armchair. It was soft and comfortable. Everything felt comfortable now. In his thoughts, he thanked them for choosing a poison that wasn’t violent. He had seen violent deaths by poisoning before: the vomiting, the tuberculosis-like cough with blood spatter, the drooling, the skin turning from red to blue to green. He was grateful his death wouldn’t be like that. Grateful that when she returned, she wouldn’t have to deal with puddles of blood or a twisted face. He hoped to keep a peaceful expression, not to ruin her evening.

For the first time, he tried to consider someone else’s feelings. He tried to calculate how much time he had left. Would it be enough to see her enter the house? Would he smell her cooking? Would she be on time, or would she be late today?

His hands felt weak. He placed them on the arms of the chair, then on his knees, then back on the chair arms. After that, he could no longer move his limbs. He scanned the room with a blurred gaze, searching his mind for anything left unsaid or unwritten.

He thought of the children again.He thought of his wife. She knows everything.He thought of his editor. Who cares. The last book.

The last book lay on the table, alongside current household paperwork and the folded letter to his children. He blinked, trying to focus on the book. Maybe his death would finally make him an esteemed writer. But he could no longer identify the uncovered book in the pile of papers. The more he blinked, the more compressed and gray the air became.

Blink. Gray.

Blink. Darker gray.

Blink.

He heard a key turn in the door. The last thought went through his mind, maybe he forgot his key in the lock and she would not be able to enter.

#ShortStory #LiteraryFiction #Poignant #EndOfLife #Guilt #Redemption #Family #Loss #EmotionalWriting #FinalMoments