I had waited for this moment for years.
First with dread, of course–the inevitable fear of the inevitable.
Then I began to pray for it.
I prayed for some relief, some closure, a chance to worry about something completely different.
I punished myself for spawning such blasphemous thoughts, but they came all the same.
When it was time, I was ready.
I sat there all night, watching, breathing, waiting.
How did I miss it?
When had the last puff of air passed her lips and dispersed?
In the end, it was impossible to tell when it was. It just was.
Why did I wish for this–
this hole of nothing? This abyss?
Random stab at fiction inspired by artist Sophie Calle (long story), and A Night of Writing Dangerously.