She strokes my hair, soft and gentle, just like my mother used to do. But Momma died forty years ago, and this girl looks younger than my granddaughter. She's pretty, and she smells like warm cookies. I'm happy she's here.
Pain wracks my body, making me cry out.
Her hands clutch mine, and she whispers soothing words. "It will be over soon. Not much longer now."
It passes, and I sag in my bed, breathless, tears on my temples. There isn't much getting used to this amount of pain, even after all the years it's been coming after me. Not even the morphine helps.
Her soft hands and empty black eyes do.
"Will it be good, when I go?" I ask her. My heart pounds in my chest, racing, and I can barely draw enough breath to ask my questions. "No more pain, or needles, or machines?"
Her smile lights up her entire face, and I see stars dancing in the depths of her eyes. She strokes my hair again, filling the air with the scent of Momma's barley bread. "That's up to you. Did you live a good life?"
"As good as I could."
"Do you have any regrets?"
I think about the days I lived, of the years I passed. I'd done many wonderful things, seen many places, had raised a lovely family.
My family. My pride and joy. "No regrets. None."
She leans close, smiling broader. "Then no more pain." She kisses my cheek and it all fades away.
I'm finally free.
