Don't ask me where this came from, for I have no idea myself. This is my first short story and I absolutely love it. My English teacher directed me to another teacher who submits students into an essay and poetry contest, so this little short may get published! I'm excited, to say the least. Anyway, if you find any errors or have any comments, feel free to contact me! :)

Though he could never let the words leave his lips, he thought she was beautiful. Her skin, toned to the shade of dark chocolate, looked soft and healthy while her brown eyes were stern and held her ever-present independency. Her hands, he noticed, were rough and skilled at what their daily routine consisted of. Her feet, though slightly larger than most women, were always bare (or close to) and carried the woman everywhere without complaint.

But, of course, this is all merely poetry—words in a book, he thought. There were no clear words or metaphors that he could use to describe her beauty. There was that word again—beauty, beautiful, beautifully…not one fully states how…wonderfully attractive she was.

He desperately wanted to hold her roughly skilled hands, to stare into those stern eyes, and to wisp her off her large feet. But right now…right now, he couldn’t. All he could do, right now, was watch her from his prison cell. It was a bed that once shared its space with two beings, him and her, which now held only him, a sickly man with very little strength left.

He’d been envying her for months. At first, it was a sneeze here and there, and then an on-and-off cough progressed until he was ordered to stay home by her. He waited; taking herb after herb, for this minor illness to pass so he could hunt and bring food home, but those hunts never came. She picked up the slack—hunting, chopping wood, tending the crops—while he got sicker. His body became cold while hers stayed warm with the season. His large, rough hands became soft and gentle and his eyes showed the world his vulnerability and current dependency on her.

He wished he wasn’t ill so she could leave the house and property. He wanted her to spend time with long-forgotten friends. He wanted her hands to be their once soft state, tracing gentle circles on his chest as they slept. He wished so much for her, yet he could never tell her them. She would deny them, cast them off, and say that her place was here—with him.

He hated her for that; her loyalty to him, a sick man who was going to ruin her life and break her heart. He was not wrong about that. After being quarantined to their home, his illness coated everything in the small building and she started sneezing. He worried not about the first few, when they were spread out, but when the sneezes became constant, his heart dropped. She could have left him to his sickness, where at least he knew she would live on, but she had to stay. She had to stay with him and get sick.

Now, the bed held its lovers. Their synchronized coughs, sneezes, and whimpers of pain filled the air of the diseased home. Hands, now all soft and gentle, interlace and pat in attempts to comfort the other. Empty, dependent eyes stare deeply at each other whenever there are no coughs or fits of pain.

Though he had wished for her to leave sooner before the illness got her, he was content with dying now. He was happy that she was lying here next to him. Though he could feel his heartbeat quicken as his eyes continued to stare at her, his pulse slowed, until finally, his world went black. The last thing he remembered was her soft, gentle hands tracing circles on his chest as they slept together for the last time.