One of us has to die. That's what he said on the phone. If we wanted our children back, one of us would have to kill the other.

It was my fault for meddling in his life and calling him out on his grave mistake. It was my fault for naming him a criminal and threatening to take this to the police. It was my fault for following up on my threat. And now, it was my fault for putting my family in danger.

I bury my head into my hands. It was my fault. It was my fault. It was my fault. No matter what happens, someone in this family is going to die tonight, whether it was my husband, my children, or me.

I pick up the gun he left for us and shoved it in my husband's hand, forcefully wrapping his finger around the trigger. I point the gun straight at my heart without hesitating.

"Shoot me."

Fear shines in his eyes, the sea-blue eyes I fell for years ago. I wasn't going to be able to see them anymore. His hand visibly trembles as he slowly pushes the trigger back.

He stops, a tear trickling down his cheek. "I can't do this, Kayla. I can't hurt you."

I take a deep breath, trying to ignore the pounding of my heart as my voice shivers on my next words. "Do you have any better idea?"

He purses his lips, the rosy lips I have kissed every day since we first started dating. I wasn't going to be able to do that anymore. His eyes widen, and somehow I know inside that neither of us is going to like his idea.

"Well," my husband stammers, "What if we...um...don't want our...um...children back?" He says it more like a question than a statement.

He doesn't believe in it. We have lived our years. Our children, aged 3 and 7, were so young. They have the entire world left to explore. They have so much time left to live. It isn't fair to take that away from them because of my mistake.

No. It has to be one of us. I think and think and think and make my final decision.

I grab the gun from my husband's hand and take it into my own, pointing it at his forehead. He looks shocked, a sliver of worry showing in his eyes.

"Honey, please listen to me," I say, trying to convince myself this was the right thing to do. "This mess is all my fault. We both know that. It is true one of us is going to die tonight, but it's going to be harder for the person who is alive.

They will have to go through the pain of knowing that they were the cause of their spouse's death. They will have to go through the pain of keeping this secret as our children grow. They will have to go through the pain of eventually telling our children this, knowing very well that our children could betray them. That is pain beyond death, and it is unfair for you to be the one facing this pain while I, who made the mistake in the first place, happily rest in heaven. I'm sorry, sweetie."

And I pull the trigger.

How long had He walked the Earth?

Aeons? He didn't know anymore.

Nature never minded His presence. After all, He was part of the Circle of Life. Mankind, however, detested him. They tried everything to evade him, to no avail. Some called Him an Angel, some called Him the Grim Reaper.

How foolish to think that a being like Him would bear any semblance to man.

He wasn't the darkness mankind portrayed him to be, neither was he the bright light the dying claimed to see. He was incorporeal.

He mourned for every being he took from and bore the burden of guilt and sorrow.

He was the first being to walk the earth, and the last.

Now, He lay at the base of the Tree of Life and took his time to appreciate the tranquillity and beauty of the moment.

He admired the majestic stars that dotted the night sky, the pearlescent moon that now seemed so close and savoured the feeling of the soft, damp earth around him for the last time. He bid the celestial bodies goodbye and slept.

His life of loneliness, grief and yearning had come to an end. He was finally released from his grievous task.

She had spent all day making the preparations. This was no small occasion. Would four bags of ice be enough, she wondered? Should she have gotten five? No, four would be plenty. She was not going back out to get more. The sun would be setting soon. It was almost time. She lit the candles. First, the large lavender one, then, the tea lights. Four bags of ice would be enough.

She loved the subtle smell of lavender. It calmed her in uncomfortable situations. This was not uncomfortable. She stared at the purple, painted mirror. Purple made her feel at ease. The faint smell of lavender seeped into her nose. She inhaled its subtle sweetness.

The bottle of Beaujolais she opened to let breathe sat on the counter, a glass next to it. She poured. Not a drop spilled. She held the glass to her nose and let the aroma blend with the lavender and drank.

She loved wine, especially French wine; she loved anything French. She had never been to France but dreamed of it. Often she would imagine sitting at a little table in a Parisian café, watching the passersby speaking that beautiful, poetic language. She knew some. She taught herself what she could. She feared that if she went the dream would slip away; the idea of it replaced by a fading memory.

Next to the bottle of wine sat The Sun Also Rises. It was one of her favorites. It comforted her like an old friend. The cover torn off and the pages bent. She had read it so many times in waiting rooms. Thoughts of matadors and Spanish countryside made her happy. She imagined Spain the same way she imagined France, a pristine reverie not to be muddled by memory.

The sun began to set, and as its light faded, the soft glow of the candles grew brighter. The lavender, more accentuated. The wax melting. The ice still cold. She poured more wine. This time several drops spilled onto the coverless book. The burgundy droplets were absorbed by the weathered page. It looked beautiful to her. A soft smile grew on her face as she caressed the new stains on the old book. She tried to see the beauty in almost everything.

Something was missing. She had to decide. She bit her lower lip and paused. Her lip slipped from between her teeth into a semi-smile as she heard Le Fille Aux Cheveux de Lin began to play. She set it to repeat, turned to close the door – no, how did she forget that one? The reflection in the mirror starred at her. She hesitated, then undid her robe and let it fall to the floor. She closed her eyes and touched her head. Her hand moved down to her chest. Her eyes opened and a tear fell out. It ran down her cheek. She wiped it off and took a deep breath.

“No more tears,” she said.

She took the mirror down from the door and turned it around. It was time.

It felt cold. She held it firm between her finger and thumb. It was colder than the ice. A shiver ran through her body. It fell to the floor like a steel leaf. Sanguine tears ran down her fingers and hit the tile, making a sound like rain. Her eyes felt heavy. She saw the bottle and the book in the fading light; she smelled the lavender and wine; she heard the music soften with each note. A feeling of warmth engulfed her in the sea of tiny glaciers.

A smile.

No more tears.