Her Life Was Dead

She didn’t understand why it was his plane that had to be delayed. It just didn’t make sense. What are the chances that her husband’s flight from JFK to LAX would be delayed and then get blown up? A million to one, she told herself. So was her husband lucky? Did he finally win something? As a gambling addict, he’d say he won. He’d say that he won against all odds (literally). But she wasn’t happy about it. She wasn’t happy that her husband was lying in that hospital bed, in critical condition, just after a terrorist attack at LAX.
She wasn’t happy at all.

But she knew he’d be fine. He’d be alright. Right? It’s 2013, and hospitals have amazing doctors and treatments, right? But in her heart, she knew it was over. His life, her life, whoever’s life it was was over. She should’ve known not to marry at such a young age. She was only sixteen, and he was seventeen. They faked their parents’ permission and left home, moving to Los Angeles. And here she was, just three years later, thinking that her life was over. And it was true. It was over. Without him, she’d be in the streets, and her parents would never take her back after what she’d done.

Maybe she’d find someone who would take care of her. Someone who would love and honor her, and never waste his life on cards and chips. At that moment, she heard something in the hospital room start to beep. A long, high-pitched beep. She looked at one of the machines in the room and saw a long line across it. It was three in the morning, and no nurse came, but she didn’t need a nurse to pronounce him dead. He was dead. She was dead. Her life was dead.