[ WP ] A Sweet Old Couple Prepares For The End

Freddie and Helen Kissinger had lived on 15 Elm Street in the small town of Nottingdale, Indiana, for the last forty-five or so years of their lives. Freddie was a school principal at the local elementary school, Helen taught music at the same school. Freddie had advanced cirrhosis of the liver that was expected to be untreatable at his age, and Helen had been coughing up blood from the tears in her stomach lining that had come up as a result of some parasitic infection or another. They were ready. 
 
 Sort of. 
 Helen squawked from the bed, “ Did you leave the letter for the kids? ” 
 Freddie quavered, “ Yes, dear, it ’ s behind the screen door. ” 
 “ What about the dog? ” 
 “ The dog died two years ago. ” 
 “ Leave some cookies out on the porch for the kids when they stop by. ” 
 “ I did at noon. ” 
 “ What-what about the garden? ” 
 “ Helen, who gives a shit? We ’ re going to die. ” 
 It was a beautiful day outside. The petunias swayed in perfect formation, the sun beat down through the windows of the little isolated house on the lonely road coming out of town. Freddie kicked the dog on the way upstairs, with his sleeping pills in hand. Four of them would kill an adult human, and Freddie wasn ’ t exactly sure if either of them still qualified as either of those things. He wore his dress blues, while Helen wore her Sunday best. He had to coerce her into taking off the plumed hat before she settled down. 
 He gave eight pills to her, and eight to himself. Little nuggets of death lying in the dusty bowl of his time-worn palm. He was ready, and looking at Helen, his wife of sixty-three years, he knew she was ready too. They mouthed the words together. 
 *One. * 
 *Two. * 
 *Three. * 
 Freddie palmed the pills. They lay clutched in his hand, and he sighed and leaned back as if he had done something momentous. He stuffed them under the covers. He lay down and waited for his wife to die. 
 
 Fifteen minutes later, he heard his wife ’ s breathing slow. It was time. He carefully got out of bed. He didn ’ t have cirrhosis. He just drank a lot and hated his wife. He looked outside. He was ready. He stepped out of the room with a boundless energy he hadn ’ t felt since he graduated high school. He clattered down the stairs and clicked his heels. Suddenly, 
 
 “ YOU DICKLESS BITCH, I KNEW YOU DIDN ’ T TAKE THOSE PILLS. ” 
 
 Fuck. He grabbed the shovel and went upstairs.
