Her Sickness, His Cure B2 (ON HOLD)

Her Sickness, His Cure B2 (ON HOLD)

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WpMetadataReadבוגרמתמשך10h 21m
WpMetadataNoticeLast published שבת, ינו׳ 17, 2026
"You...You look just like an angel...A dangerous one but still.....an Angel." She attempted to smile at me. Her breathing was forced and ragged. Her forehead was covered in beads of sweat. Whether she felt any pain or not, I felt a thousand knives pierce my heart. I gently caressed her cheek with the back of my hand. All my life I never had a problem getting whatever I want. I was the last child out of four siblings. My parents spoilt me with everything. In every way. They had no problem allowing me to have whatever my heart desired. I was never met with anything I couldn't have. Until her. Until this beautiful woman who was never going to be mine. I wish I could fight to have her. I wish I was faced with a normal challenge that most men do when they were in love. A normal challenge would occasionally be them trying to prove their love for their woman, or compete for her hand if there was another man after her. I would love to compete but how could I ever compete with something which is not a being of any sort? How was I ever going to compete or battle against something I could never touch or see? How could I beat it if it is the one she has chosen to go with? How could I ever take away the freedom of choice? How could I ever compete with Death?
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ייתכן שתאהבו גם

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"Kill..." the low whispering voice trailed off into my head. I don't think the strange whispering voice came from anyone in the room. It was too loud; too abnormel; too deadly. Suddenly a cold shiver ran down my back making me scream and cry out for someone, something, anything. I want to be alone, somwhere dark, somewhere safe. My eyes open to see a woman cradling me in her arms. A man with red eyes, tan skin, and blonde hair starred at me. His eyes sunk into my head making me wince. The woman is natuarlly warm and comfortable, but her face is stained with tears mixed with blood on her, once beautiful, face. She smeared some of the blood onto my puffy cheeks with a warm beaten and calloused hand. "You're gonna be okay," she assured me. More tears fell from her eyes. I looked closer into her grayish, I think, eyes. They had evil tucked beneath fear in them. I don't know what she means, yet her words mean the world to me at this very moment: 4 minutes ago, I was born.

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