Werewolf Bond

I was dying of Stage III cancer.

That was exactly what I was thinking about as the rain battered the windows and I stood in our dimly-lit kitchen, my hands trembling from hope-or the lack of it, and the weight of my illness as it pulled me farther away from life.

The diagnosis had first come six months ago, and every day after that was a battle. I watched myself grow thinner everyday, and the quiet attempts at chemotherapy had made me lose so much of my golden hair that being completely bald felt like a better fit. But the worst of these changes in the last six months was why I poured my fading energy into that night's dinner, praying it would bridge the chasm that had grown between Ralph and me.

I took in a whiff of his favorite roast as it simmered, the aroma mingling with the scent of the candles I had arranged with care while waiting for him to return. My body ached, but my heart ached more, as I now well knew that Ralph had been a stranger lately, his former warmth replaced by a new, cold indifference.

When the front door creaked open, my pulse quickened. I had been waiting all day.

"Ralph?" I called, stepping forward, my voice fragile and weak, but hopeful.

He was in the living room, shrugging off his drenched coat and tossing it carelessly over the sofa, his eyes avoiding mine and staring at his feet. I could see the exhaustion lines carved into his face, but it was the unbothered detachment in his posture that stung most.

"You're home. Dinner's ready," I said, forcing a smile despite the nausea I felt creeping up. "I thought we could eat together."

He paused, his gaze finally meeting mine-sharp, disinterested. "I ate-"

I couldn't listen to all he said, but rushed to the nearest sink where I threw up the contents of my stomach, retching everything up. Dejection came over me as I turned the faucet and let it run before washing my hands. Then I returned to him, where he stood with an expression on his face.

"Have you been doing that all day?" He asked, pointing irritatingly at me. His words were clipped, like I was an inconvenience.

"No. And I made sure to clean up well. Please, Ralph," I whispered, going close enough to reach for his hand, desperate to feel something of the man I loved. "We barely talk anymore. We should do something together."

He yanked his hand away, his angry voice slicing through me. "Sophie, stop pushing. I said no."

And without waiting for me to say anything else, he walked away without looking back.

The rejection landed like a physical blow, but I refused to let go of hope. I thought he was coming to terms with my illness, and that he just needed to deal with it. So I went and ate alone while waiting for him to come to me. He never did.

I decided that it was a bland meal without him, and tried to talk to him again in our bedroom, except that I walked in and found a velvet box sitting on the bed. He was nowhere close.

I opened it and found a golden bangle with a red diamond, delicate and dazzling.

My heart fluttered at the sight, and I remembered that our anniversary was near. He hardly ever remembered, but he had to have this time. Could this be for me? A sign he still cared?

I fastened it around my thin wrist, the cool metal soothing against my feverish skin. Just then, Ralph emerged from the bathroom, cool and composed. He was a handsome man with jet black hair, a pair of brown eyes, and a well-chiseled body. I found myself admiring the waist muscles that peeked above his towel, before taking another glance at his face.