The Watcher

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So this is how it’s going to end?

I’m teetering on the edge. I turn around and our eyes meet, hers the same ones that once looked into mine at the altar in that picturesque little village church. They were filled with happiness and emotion then, but now they’re black with the hatred of revenge. And I see decisiveness in her face, a purposefulness that hasn’t been there for a long time. Only now does it occur to me that what’s about to happen is not a coincidence. My wife has been waiting for an opportunity like this. She wants to see me dead.

This whole time I’ve been worried about her… Suddenly I realize that I should have been afraid for myself.

People say that in your final moments you see your life pass before your eyes, from beginning to end. How would anyone even know something like that? I don’t experience it. No cavalcade of birthdays and celebrations, flickers of failures and successes, or the faces that I held most dear. I see only one thing in front of me, and, oddly enough, it’s that church where we once promised to love each other forever, for better or for worse. I remember everything, every single detail of our wedding day, just as clearly as if it were yesterday—our fingers intertwined as we slowly walked down the aisle, the smiling faces in the pews, the rustling of fancy clothes, the scent of freshly picked summer flowers, our vows that we’d written ourselves, the sun shining through the stained-glass windows, the pastor’s blessing.

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