The Change of Seasons

Part 4 - Autumn

I apologized, over and over again. But nothing could be reversed. I would be free from fear soon. My lack of remorse scared me. I didn't know what else to say except "I'm sorry." There was nothing that I could say – Aspen didn't like it when I lied.

"It's alright," she slurred. I wasn't sure if it was because of the drink or the poison. "I know you're tired. So am I." Her mind would be numb soon. It wouldn't be painful. Not as much as the pain she has caused upon herself or me. "Your patience has worn thin and the love for me is gone. And I see shadows of my gruesome self in you, now. I suppose it's my fault. I'm glad that you've done this. I didn't have the guts to do so myself."

I shook my head, but not in denial; I wasn't sure what for. "Maybe in another life, I could love you better. I still love you. I just got worse at showing it." She shuffled over, and leaned on me. I reflexively put my arm around her, like I have done for the many times when she sought comfort. She never returned the favours back to me. I closed my eyes and prayed that the afterlife would be better for her. "I'm sorry. For all the pain I've inflicted on you. You know I'm sorry, right?"

A brief interlude fell upon us, my hiccups covered her weakening breathing. "Do you want to know what the happiest day of my life was?" So I asked her. "Our wedding at the bar you used to work at. Because I knew you would make me happy. But I never made you happy," she chuckled despite the lack of humour. "I know the real reason you left your work. Will you go back to being a bartender?"

"Maybe."

"You should. You were happy. I'm sorry I never gave you that happy ending I promised you." She grimaced, not out of pain but heartbreak, and continued, "But can you do one last thing for me, after I..." Aspen couldn't bear to say it, even though she has long accepted that death was coming for her.

"Anything. You know I would do anything for you," I reassured her. Somehow, this didn't feel like parting. My indifference to her on her deathbed startled me.

"Don't marry another alcoholic."

Then we sat in dark, overwhelmed by nostalgia for the days of the past. Her breathing became fainter, more laboured. At last, she took her last breath and she was freed from the world; and I was freed from what used to be mine.