From SID - A Short Story. Available wherever ebooks are sold.
I was happy. For the first time in my wretched, filthy life, I was happy. You have to understand that. With Kris I didn't miss the words or the dark. Hell, I didn't want them. I had nothing to escape from.
Until January seventeenth, three months and twenty-six days before we were booked to take a honeymoon in the Bahamas. It had been spitting snow for the better part of a week, temps hovering just below freezing, but that Wednesday afternoon it warmed up and flurries turned to drizzle. Kris was late but I was home, watching the news and trying to ignore the inviting aroma from her crock pot, when they showed the accident. Thirty-two cars crushed together on the interstate, unable to stop because the rain had turned to ice, and the dipshit that started it all laying upside down in the median.
Despite surgeries, machines, and I lost count how many transfusions, it took her three days to die. I never left her side for a moment she wasn't in surgery. Not one damn moment. When I couldn't cry, I wrote. It was shit, but I wrote anyway.
When it was over, when my Kris was gone and I was sent to a special waiting room to collect myself and call her parents, I sat there a long time, staring at the scrunched and stained spiral notebook that had helped me endure the past days. A decayed corpse of black bones and rotted flesh walked in, shambling and smelling of rot. He sat beside me and introduced himself as Sid before leaning back in his chair, brightly aware eyes glittering in dead and rotted sockets. I didn't realize I'd pulled my penknife from my pocket and had flayed my arm open as he stared, not until the green cover of my notebook had splattered red and Sid had licked it clean.