Tell me you will hold me in the golden afterlife.
It won't make what I have to do any easier, but it might just give me the strength I need to do what is right anyway.
We knew that not everyone was going to make it, once the pandemic hit at full force. Although it killed slowly, it killed nonetheless. And days, weeks, even months passed, and scientists were stumped. A cure, to this day, hasn't yet been found.
Over time, however, it became clear not everyone was susceptible. People escaped from infected areas, without displaying even a single symptom. No matter how the disease had touched them, it seemed it couldn't infect them. Hope started to rise with the knowledge of this rare group: the immune.
That hope was dashed even quicker than it could rear its head, however. The immune could only ever share their immunity in one way, and the price for that was just too high. Resistance against the virus turned out to reside in the human brain, and well, one can't live without it.
That's where I come in. As you know, I'm one of those immune people. And while I hate to lose my life, I can't stand to watch the suffering any longer. Really, if you think about it, my sacrifice is one out of selfish reasons, more so than altruistic ones.
At least, that's what I tell myself, to make it easier on my brain to comprehend. It will have a hard enough time soon enough.
So please, tell me again. Tell me we will meet once more in the afterlife.
I need a light at the end of the tunnel I'm about to step into.
Author's note: This is my entry for contest #29 of wallflower_r 's weekly writing contests. The prompt was to use a line from your current favourite song, and make it the starting sentence or the basis of the story. I chose a line of the song "Sacrifice" by Zella Day.
