Curse Or Bless

I fell to my knees, trembling, one hand pressing against the gaping wound in my lover's chest. Warm blood soaked through my fingers, and in my other hand, I gripped the cross hanging from my neck. It was small, silver, and shaking - like me.

And then, through the chaos, a thought whispered - not a prayer, not a plea, but a curse:

I don't want to die. They have to die.