The house was quiet that morning, quieter than usual. Debra stood in front of the
wardrobe with both hands trembling against the polished wood. She hesitated before
pulling the handle open, and for a moment she hoped it would be empty, that maybe
she had only imagined the thing hidden inside.
But it wasn't a dream.
Wrapped in an old cloth, nestled at the back where only William ever reached, lay the
revolver. A D2. Heavy, colder than she expected as she lifted it. Her knees wavered
beneath her, the weight not just of metal, but of what it meant. She stared at it for a long
time, then placed it carefully inside her handbag as if it were glass, not steel.
She sat down at the edge of the bed, pulled a sheet of paper close, and wrote. This
would be her final letter to John. One last plea, one last attempt to reach him before
everything was set in motion. Every word shook, blurred with tears, but she forced her
hand steady enough to form the truth:
"Your father doesn't have much time left. Please, if you read this, come. We need you. I
need you."
She folded it carefully, kissed the envelope, and left for the post office. Her heart begged
for a reply that might save them all save her husband, save her from the choice that
was crushing her from inside out.
---
When she returned to the hospital, the revolver still in her bag, she couldn't bring herself
to do it. Not yet. Instead, she sat beside William's bed, holding his fragile hand in both of
hers. His skin felt like parchment stretched over bone, each vein raised and trembling
beneath her touch.
She tried to lighten the silence. "Do you remember," she asked, voice low and cracked,
"how you rebelled against your own father because of me?"
A weak smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. His voice came out like gravel
dragged across stone. "Yes… I do. And I'd do it all again. I loved you too much to care
about his anger."
Debra smiled faintly through her tears. "Our child… he's just like you. Rebelling against
his father for the life he wants."
"I see." William coughed, pausing to breathe. "Then I forgive him. And I'm sorry I wasn't
better for him. I would never have ignored my own father, especially if he were sick." His
eyes dimmed. "But maybe he doesn't know…"
The days stretched into weeks. Every dawn was another piece of William slipping away.
They discussed, argued, wept, and prayed but the disease didn't slow. Finally, after
countless nights of agony, they both reached the same conclusion. The decision felt
less like a choice and more like a cliff they were both already falling from.
Debra would end his suffering. And then, when the time was right, she would end hers.
They had promised each other forever since they were teenagers; if life had carried
them through decades of love and hardship, then death, too, would have to carry them
together.
---
That night the room was dark except for the faint glow of the monitor by William's
bedside. His breathing rattled shallow and uneven, every inhale sounding like the last.
Debra sat with him, clutching his hand so tightly her nails dug into her own skin.
"Hold on to me," she whispered.
Tears blurred her vision as she pulled the revolver from her bag. The sound of the metal
clicking into readiness was a sound she never thought she would hear in her own
hands. William looked at her not with fear, but with gratitude.
"Thank you," he whispered, eyes glossy with pain.
Her sobs came in waves. She pressed her forehead to his, whispering prayers,
apologies, promises. And then, with trembling hands, she placed the barrel against his
temple.
The shot cracked through the hospital like lightning. Nurses rushed in, shouting,
horrified. They found an old woman shaking uncontrollably beside the bloodied bed of
her husband. William still managed to speak, his lips curving into the faintest smile.
"Thank you," he said again. And then he was gone.
Debra's ears rang. Her hands shook so violently she almost dropped the gun. Her heart
pounded in her chest like a drum trying to break free. She tried to steady her breath, but
it came shallow, frantic.
Why am I so afraid? she thought. We willed everything to John. He won't be burdened.
This was mercy. This was love. So why does it feel like I'm drowning? Why can't I do the
second half?
She sat frozen, staring at the weapon, debating whether she had the strength to follow
him immediately. Her body screamed to end it all, but something deeper pulled her back
some thread of life she couldn't cut.
Shouts filled the room. The police stormed in, weapons drawn, voices sharp. "Drop the
gun! Put it down now!"
Debra barely noticed them at first, lost in her storm. Her tears blinded her as she
whispered, "Why can't I?"
The stand-off grew tense, officers screaming, threatening to shoot if she didn't comply.
For a moment, she almost welcomed the idea let them do it, let them end it for her. But
then her fingers loosened, and the gun slipped from her hands to the floor with a clatter.
She sobbed as the officers cuffed her gently, voices lowered now, treating her less like a
criminal and more like someone too broken to stand.
"No," she whispered. "I can't die yet."
---
July 14th, 1956.
Debra Kennedy was arrested and charged with first-degree murder. The courtroom felt
more like a funeral hall than a place of justice. But when the CCTV footage was shown
William's desperate request, his pleas for release the truth reshaped the case.
It wasn't murder in cold blood. It was mercy, born of love and despair. The judge pitied
her, his voice heavy as he pronounced sentence: one year in prison.
Eight months later.
Prison hadn't broken her. If anything, Debra seemed… lighter, as though carrying her
grief openly was less exhausting than hiding it. She was called to the visiting room one
afternoon, surprised when a guard said she had a visitor.
On the other side of the glass stood her son. Taller than she remembered, scarred,
bruised, a soldier carved by war. His hands pressed against the glass as tears streaked
down his face. He grabbed the phone with trembling hands.
"I never got your letters," he choked. "The Sergeant… he kept them from me. I wrote
back, over and over, but I thought you were ignoring me. I thought you hated me,
because of how we left things. I'm sorry. I didn't know."
Debra pressed the phone to her ear, her tears finally breaking free. "It's all right, John.
When did you get them?"
"Just recently," he said. "After they dismissed me, the Sergeant finally gave me the
stack. There were so many, I didn't know where to start. I began with the last one… and
I cried. Dad's gone, and I never even got to apologize."
Debra's voice was soft, soothing, motherly even through the static. "It's fine. He forgave
you before the end. He loved you, John. We both did."
John swallowed hard, jaw trembling. "I was dismissed because they accused me of
using drugs to enhance myself. They searched my bunker and they found them. But it
was a setup, Mom. I was framed."
Her time was almost up. The guard tapped his watch. She tried to say something more,
but the line clicked.
John slammed his hand against the glass, screaming, "I'll be waiting for you, Mom! I'll
be waiting!"
Debra forced a smile through her tears as the guard led her away.
ENJOY WHAT YOU HAVE NOW, TOMORROW ISN'T CERTAIN.
"Lost Wheel" From the Book "Tides of War" by toxic1g3u0.