Short Story : ' The Death Of Me '

Robin's words were caught in his throat. "Uh, I'm so sorry." It was forced and insincere,

“Maxwell! I love you so much, but you won’t let me do what’s right. You keep fighting me.” She keeps crying through her words. Maxwell holds her tighter and says, “Jada, you’re asking the impossible of me. Giving you up is not an option. I’m sure as hell not going to do that so that you can go to another man. Hell no!”

“I won’t let nobody hurt you again,” Robin promises, even though it’s not a promise she’ll be able to keep.

“I can’t believe you. The whole time we were married you was out fucking around! I knew you were naïve, but never in a million years would I think you would be so stupid! Night after night me waiting up for you, all the while you were out there having your affairs with women and probably men too! While you were fucking those smut buckets, did it ever occur to you that you could catch something, I guess not! You’re a poor excuse for a man. After the divorce is final I want nothing to do with you! You have dragged me to hell and back! May God have mercy on your soul!” Justine roughly pulled up to the curb. She got out the car to open Vaughn’s door.

“Of course dear, I love you, and forgive you for your mistake. I’m so happy to have you back.”

Jolted awake by the light shining directly in her face, Casey opened her eyes to find Ray leaning on one elbow staring at her as she slept. Twisting his wrist, she checked the time on his watch. “We’re late. Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Stop apologising to me, you don’t need to, sweety” she consoles me with her soft, mesmerising voice.

Traditionally, women have been known as the less dominant sex. They have been stereotyped as being only housewives and bearers of the children. Many interesting characters in literature are conceived from the tension women have faced with men. This tension is derived from men; society, in general; and within a woman herself. Kate Chopin‘s short story, “The Story of an Hour”, focus on a woman’s dilemma near the turn of the 19th century. Contradicting the “normal” or sad assumption of death, “The Story of an Hour” illustrates the significance of death representing freedom. The Story narrates about an hour of Louise Mallard’s life, as she tries to understand, and deal with her feelings of her husbands death.

“If anything’s happened to her, I could never forgive myself. She’s only in this madness because of me.”

I know they can’t but you can make the best out of this. We could.” he closed his eyes for a moment before continuing. “I just don’t want to lose you. I‘ve been perpetually losing you since we met, I know this is hard for you but you have to choose between the possibility of rebuilding a life or going away forever...please.”

“Thank you for helping Pax, but I’d like to have my girlfriend back.” Raven helped her up.

“ i’ve been getting better it’s not like it’s been the death of me yet. ” he breathes out with a hand going through his hair, head shaking left and right. he KNOWS his lack of prowess when it came to hand-on-hand fights. all this power but nothing to use EFFECTIVELY when he’s not in the air. maybe this was why he couldn’t throw his pokeballs that good, either. excuses, excuses. JAKE MIGHT NOT LET THIS GO, he’ll take down every speck of yellow, but at least he seems diffused. “ consider it a victory dinner for burning yellow to ash. ” he jokes now, a smile curling up on his face to show he doesn’t really CARE. okay, danny cares. he’ll try to reclaim a few later in the week if he has to but he’d rather not witness a poke-rampage that he started when he was suppose to call jake cute. “ did i tell you that you were pretty ? ”

“Mam, I love you. I can never thank you enough for teaching me the importance of second chances. Thank you for loving me. I did not have you back in my life for long enough,” whispered Audra, “but our time together changed me. Thank you.”

"Then, just like that, she was gone. I couldn’t hold back the tears, and I don’t think my sunglasses hid them well. I’ve gotten used to my emotions and I only let it all out when they can’t be stifled, so you know this wasn’t a sigh-I’m-gonna-miss-her moment. The sunshine and warm breeze of Friday afternoon was frustrating; dreary, cold, typical-March days are fitting, appropriate for feeling this way, and how nice it was outside was a slap in the face. I later recalled how just a year prior I reversed the phrase A sunny day is no match for a cloudy disposition on a day like this one. I thought I was okay with everything, so what was it that hurt me? She left so easily; she never thinks about

“It’s your fault. There’s no other way this story goes,” said Elise, her voice leaving traces of hate to linger.