Her Last Day

© Eugene Sergeev / Shutterstock.com

The macarons were tempting – especially the salted caramel ones. Yet Cicely couldn't bring herself to eat one. She was certain that the pleasure of biting into that heavenly mixture of crispness, chewiness and creaminess would be bliss. Yet she knew the bliss would be short-lived. Today was the day she would die.

No-one had told her this. It was something she knew with every fibre of her being. Some people grew old and died of heart attacks or strokes. Some contracted a fatal disease and died before old age could catch up with them. Others died by the hand of murderers, yet others by misadventure.

None of those would happen to her. Today she would die merely because it was her time to die. She was healthy and happy. She would not have a heart attack or a stroke.  She had no disease, fatal or otherwise. No-one would kill her and she would not kill herself. There was no accident waiting for her.

At 4:35:34pm precisely, she would lay down on her bed. Her breathing would slow and her heart would beat …

 Va-voom, va-voom, va...voom, va... ...voom, va... .... ...voom, va... .... ... ...voom, va

No clinical signs of heart attack. Just her heart stopping, her brain winding down, releasing all the chemicals that signified the last hurrah of life. Her time would be over. No reason. No rhyme. Only the poetry of death.