Her name was Edith and she was to be my wife, but that was
before death stole her from my strong grasp. It has been eight
hours and fourteen minutes since she passed. This was the last
photo we took together; she had begged me to take more--I had
declined. I despised pictures but she had found some sort of
demented beauty in them. She had said we could make memories.
Frankly I didn't quite understand why we needed memories when
we'd see each other every day for the rest of our lives. Why
would I need a photograph when I could just look at her in
person? I understood now. We wouldn't be together forever.
Sooner or later one of us would be snatched by the unforgiving
hands of death, leaving the other to suffer; the truth of the
matter is that death is unavoidable and no one can be peaceful
forever. That is a fact that I would forget whenever I was with
her because even though I knew her time would come I thought it
would be after, after we got married, after I had bought us a
house, after I had died. She'd deserved to live; she had
deserved more, more happiness, more luxury, and more memories.
It hurt to think of her, but I couldn't stop. I missed her and I
would continue to miss her and torture myself by thinking of
her, by looking at her pictures.
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