You Said Die Quietly, So I Did

Elena POV

I mailed my marriage away in a flat, rigid cardboard envelope.

It cost me exactly twenty dollars for expedited shipping. That was the cheap price of severing a bond that was supposed to be eternal before God.

I stood outside the post office, the winter wind biting at my exposed cheeks. I felt strangely, terrifyingly light. The heavy anchor of Dante Vitiello was no longer chained to my ankle.

I had mailed two packages. One went to Giulia, containing the deed to my small savings account and my final will. The other went to Dante, containing the divorce papers I had signed with a remarkably steady hand.

I walked back to the car. My legs felt heavy, dragging as if pulled by lead weights. The energy burst-that terminal lucidity the doctors always whispered about-was fading fast.

My phone buzzed against my hip.

It was Sienna. Of course it was.

She had sent a photo. It was an intimate close-up of Dante sleeping. His face was relaxed, his guard completely down.

The caption read: "He dreams of our son. What do you dream of, Elena?"

I looked at the screen. I didn't feel the familiar stab of jealousy. I didn't feel the urge to scream. I just felt an overwhelming exhaustion.

I deleted the thread.

I drove back to the estate. The wrought-iron gates opened automatically, recognizing the car of a ghost.

I walked out into the garden. It was far too cold to be outside, but the house felt like a tomb. I sat on the cold stone bench where Dante had once proposed to me.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the old leather journal I had found while cleaning out the closet.

The pages were yellowed with age. The handwriting in the beginning was loopy and excited.

Entry 1: I met a boy today. He has blood on his knuckles and sadness in his eyes. I think I love him.

I flipped through the years. The entries became shorter, sharper. The ink became darker.

Entry 400: He didn't come home again.

Entry 650: I am alone in a house full of people.

I took a pen from my pocket. My hand was trembling now. The pain in my abdomen was a screaming beast, tearing me apart from the inside out.

I wrote one final line.

I am in pain. I want to go. I wish I never met Dante Vitiello.

I closed the book.

The sun was setting, painting the sky in bruises of purple and red.

I took the bottle of morphine from my pocket. I didn't bother counting the pills. I just swallowed them. All of them.

I lay down on the freezing stone bench.

Slowly, the pain began to recede. It was replaced by a warm, fuzzy blanket of nothingness.

My eyes grew heavy.

I saw a figure walking toward me through the garden. He was wearing a leather jacket that was two sizes too big. He had a split lip and a shy, boyish smile.

It was Dante. But not the Don. Not the monster.

It was the boy from the studio apartment. The boy who had promised me the moon.

"Elena," he said, reaching out a hand. "Let's go home."

I smiled.

I took his hand.

And then, there was only white.