I set the sword against her throat.
Are you sure? I ask.
Yes. I haven’t the strength to do it myself.
Please, I can’t bear even one more change.
All those lives I’ve taken.
And the children.
Those poor children.
We see the full moon begin to rise,
and her skin creases.
Hurry now, she says.
You’re almost out of time.
As I raise my sword,
I think of love,
of loss,
of her 3 am bedroom eyes,
and I wonder how I could possibly
live without her.
My sword hand hesitates
and my arm weakens.
I don’t know if I have the will to do it.
One of us will die in the next ten seconds.
I feel dead inside already from sorrow,
so, really, what does it matter?