Dying On My Own Terms

Gilles

e someone else. Three years for the world to fo

en again. I stepped out, not into sunlight, but into a stark, gray afternoon. My eyes were fi

gleamed, pristine and out of place, like a diamond left on a heap of ash. I almost walked past it, assumi

door

ist

htening, a familiar tremor starting in my hands. I knew that voice. It was deepe

but hardened, more formidable. His hair was shorter, his jawline sharper, etched with an authority that

said, his v

hout question. I slid into the back seat, the soft leather cold against my thin frame. I kept my head down, staring at

d something uniquely Mccarthy, filled the confined space. I

voice softer this time, but st

a concept from a different world, a different me. I just focused on the thread on my dres

ommanded, a little

now held a strange mix of curiosity and something else I couldn't name. It made my stomach clench. But the second I met

p, my hands, anything but his face. The

ustration, but also, surprisingly, a hint of somet

ed a game in three y

I risked a glance out the window, the concrete walls giving way to busy streets, tall buildings, a world re-a

aid, breaking the silence. "It's her 80th birthday

I was still clinging to him, still desperate for his scraps of attention. He assumed wrong. The old Kr

't seen in years. My body was tense, rigid. Every turn, every stop, every sound was a jolt to m

I remembered it. A symbol of everything I had lost, everything I had once yearned for. And now, I was back. Not as the girl who wanted to be part o