They rushed to the hospital to see her face.
Yes they admit, there were bumps in the road they had spent with her. But they never meant to hurt her like this.
If only she told them she had gone to the hospital.
If only she had told them she was suffering and needed them to amend the wounds.
But alas, she did tell them. They were just caught up in their own fantasy of pleasing a woman who never loved them.
Ah the irony; they've been neglected by a woman all the while neglecting another.
If they had listened, they wouldn't be next to her, crying next to her bed saying sorry and pleading for forgiveness.
They wouldn't be there to feel her cold clammy hands that were once ones of warmth.
And they wouldn't be at her funeral, saying the words crafted with great care that should've been told to her when she was still there.
What was that one saying she always quoted when her expectations of the seven members coming deflated?
"Every man's life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another."
―Ernest Hemingway
And she indeed lived a life of both misery and joy, but there was no climax, just a stopped rising action.
The End
Omg I'm so sorry. I want to make it up by making another book, this one way happier. But who knows?
