Farewell to This World, No More in the Next

Weston Croft attracted chaos, chiefly through his ex-wife. In our five-year marriage, she had nine near-death episodes.

First, kidney failureshe skipped dialysis to chase a pop star. I gave her a kidney, then nearly died from an anesthesia allergy.

Later, she took up street racing and crashed, needing a massive transfusion; Weston drained me almost dry. Over those years, I deteriorated from healthy to a frail invalid.

The ninth time, she bungee-jumped over a hundred times until her heart gave out.

Weston knelt before me, trembling and in tears. Lena, he pleaded, Iris saved my life. I must give her a healthy body!

He strapped me down and performed the surgery himself. Once the transplant was done, he rushed to her side, forgetting to stitch me up.

Before leaving, he met my eyes. This is hard, but you still have me. Ill spend my life making it up to you.

Watching him go, I smiled bitterly. He didnt know that in two minutes, I would bleed to death.

A dead woman needs no apologies.

I lay on the cold operating table, my eyes filled with a despair so vast it swallowed everything else. Blood poured from the gaping wound in my chest, and the heart monitor beside me flatlined into a single, piercing tone.

But none of it was enough to make Weston turn back.

He never once looked over his shoulder. He was in such a hurry he even lost a shoe.

I tried to call out to him, but my throat was clogged with blood. I couldn't make a sound.

The pain was excruciating, a deep, bone-grinding agony with every movement. Yet, a fierce will to live pushed me to move, to roll off the table and onto the frigid floor.

I clenched my teeth against the searing pain and began to crawl, inch by inch, toward the operating room door, leaving a gruesome trail of blood in my wake.

Just as my fingers brushed against the door, it was slammed shut from the other side.

Through the heavy steel, I heard Weston's cold, detached voice.

"Lock it. Don't open it for any reason until I get back. Lena has a temper. If we let her out now, she'll make a scene. Iris just had a heart transplant; she can't handle any stress. You watch this door. Don't let her out."

I collapsed against the door, a bitter laugh escaping my lips.

He remembered that his precious Iris couldn't handle stress.

He forgot that I had just undergone open-heart surgery too, receiving her failing heart in return for my healthy one.

I was far more fragile than she was.

And my chest was still wide open.

I wouldn't be waiting for his return. I wouldn't be making any more scenes.

Because in a few moments, I would bleed to death, alone in this operating room.

My vision began to blur. But I didn't feel sad.

Instead, a wave of relief washed over me.

Compared to the torment of the past five years, death was a kindness. At least I wouldn't have to be Iris's spare parts anymore, her personal, walking blood bag.

Five years. I had saved her nine times.

When she skipped dialysis and her kidneys failed, Weston forced me to donate one of mine.

When she crashed her car and was bleeding out, he drained my blood to save her.

When she played with fire and got severely burned, he had my skin grafted from my back to repair hers.

In five years of marriage, everything inside me that could be replaced, had been.

Even my heart. He didn't hesitate for a second to give it to Iris.

My desperate sobs, my broken pleasin his eyes, they were just childish tantrums.

But now, it was all ending.

In two minutes, I would be gone from this world. I would be just as he wantedquiet, not crying, not screaming at him, asking him why he was so cruel. He wouldn't have to bother with the annoyance of trying to placate me.

After all, the dead don't have emotions.

When I opened my eyes again, I was floating in the air.

Even in death, the scene before me was a dagger to the heart.

Weston sat by Iris's bedside, patiently feeding her a bowl of soup. He blew on each spoonful to cool it before bringing it to her lips, his attention so completely focused on her that he seemed to have forgotten everything else.

Forgotten that his wife was lying in a cold operating room, cut open and bleeding, her life hanging by a thread.

I drifted silently, watching the face I had loved for five years, now so utterly repulsive to me.

After she finished the soup, Weston gently wiped her mouth with a napkin. He checked the monitors connected to her, and only when he was certain everything was stable did he stand up.

"Iris, you're recovering well. You just need to rest." His voice was soft, gentle. "I should go check on Lena now."

A sarcastic smile touched my lips. How kind of him to remember me. Too bad he didn't know I was already dead. I had bled out completely, my eyes open in a final, unseeing stare.

Weston tucked the blanket around Iris and turned to leave. But she reached out and grabbed his arm. "Weston, I just had surgery. I don't have anyone to look after me. Can you stay? Just for a little while?"

He froze, his expression conflicted. "But Lena just had surgery too. I was worried she'd cause a scene, so I had her locked in the operating room. It's been eight hours. If I don't let her out, I'm afraid something might happen."

A flash of jealousy crossed Iris's face, but she quickly masked it with a look of selfless concern. "You're right. She must be furious. Last time, after she gave me her kidney, she was still recovering when she came to my room and slapped me. My face was swollen for two weeks! And after the skin graft, she stormed in, covered in blood, screaming at me, calling me shameless. It was so humiliating. But it's okay. I brought it on myself. She's saved me so many times, I should be grateful. Weston, you don't have to worry about me. Go to Lena. And please, tell her for me, that as soon as I'm better, I'll come and thank her personally, on my knees."

Her words were sweet, but every one was a carefully crafted accusation against me.

And just as she intended, Weston's expression hardened. He sat back down on the bed. "I'd almost forgotten how unreasonable she can be," he sneered. "She's always used the fact that she's 'helped' you as an excuse to humiliate you. If I hadn't locked her up this time, who knows what kind of scene she would have made. Forget her. She's tough. She won't die. A little more time locked up will do her good. Teach her a lesson."

Even though I had expected it, tears welled in my spectral eyes.

Tough? Maybe once. But now, after everything they had done to me, I was a wreck, my body ravaged by illness and pain.

I bit my lip, my voice a silent scream. Weston, you don't have to bother locking me up. I'm already dead! You don't have to teach me any more lessons. The dead don't cause trouble!

But he couldn't hear me.

Iris, her eyes gleaming with triumph, pressed against him. "Weston, she saved my life so many times. I deserved her anger. And she is your wife, after all. You should go to her."

Weston's brow furrowed in disgust. "What's the point? I told her from the beginningyou saved my life. By marrying me, she accepted the responsibility of repaying that debt. It's her duty to save you. I've spoiled her, that's the problem. She's become so selfish and demanding. This time, I'm going to teach her a lesson she won't forget. Then maybe she'll finally leave you alone."

I floated above him, tears of bitter laughter streaming down my face.

He could repay his debt. But why did he have to use my body to do it?

Iris, feigning tears, wrapped her arms around his waist. "Weston, I know you care about me. But Lena must be so angry. She'll have to come out eventually. What if she tries to get revenge on me?"

Weston's fist clenched. "Then I'll keep her locked up for a few more days. I'll let her out after you're discharged."

I let out a cold, silent laugh. By the time she was discharged, my body would be rotting.

Iris snuggled into his embrace, a triumphant smile on her face. "Weston, will you stay with me for the next few days? I'm scared to be alone."

He was about to answer when the door to the room burst open. His assistant rushed in, his face pale with panic.

"Dr. Croft, you need to get to the operating room, now! It's your wife something's wrong!"

Weston just stared for a moment, then scoffed. "What now? What kind of drama is she pulling this time? And I thought I told you not to let her out without my permission."

The assistant shook his head frantically, on the verge of tears. "No, sir, we didn't let her out! It's just, you have to come see for yourself!"

Weston's face was a mask of annoyance, but he stood up. He stroked Iris's cheek, his voice softening. "You rest. I'll be right back. Don't worry, as long as I'm here, Lena won't dare to bother you."

He followed his assistant out, his expression grim. "She better have a good reason for this. If I find out this is just another one of her games, I'll make her regret it."

I drifted behind him, a mocking smile on my lips. Oh, Weston. You'll find out soon enough if I'm playing games. I hope you can keep your composure when you see my blood-soaked corpse.

A crowd had gathered outside the operating room. Doctors, who saw life and death every day, were clustered together, their faces etched with anxiety. When they saw Weston, they rushed toward him as if he were their savior.

"Dr. Croft, we did as you said. We had someone guard the door. But it's been eight hours, and there's been no sound from inside. We were worried about your wife, so we decided to open the door and bring her some food. But the door is jammed. We can't see inside, but there's a lot of blood seeping out from under the door."

"We've been calling her name, but there's no answer. Dr. Croft, with all that blood do you think something's happened?"

Weston glanced down at the floor. Just as they'd said, a large pool of dark blood had seeped out from under the door. The sight of it was chilling. Anyone with a shred of medical knowledge would know that amount of blood loss was fatal.

But Weston, the chief surgeon, just looked on, unmoved.

"What are you panicking for? You're doctors. You've seen blood before. Tell me, what kind of blood is this color?" He pointed a disdainful finger at the dark, almost black puddle. "You call yourselves doctors, and you're scared by a little fake blood?"

I looked down, a knot of cold dread tightening in my non-existent stomach. Perhaps because I'd been dead for a while, the blood had oxidized, turning a strange, dark color.

The other doctors exchanged uneasy glances, but no one dared to contradict him.

He sneered and kicked the door. "Lena, you never change, do you? You'd go to such pathetic lengths just to get my attention. You want out so badly, then why are you blocking the door? I'll say it again: Iris is my savior. It's my duty to save her. Can you just stop with this childish behavior? I'm counting to three. If you don't open this door, you can stay in there forever!"

"Three!"

"Two!"

"One!"

The countdown ended. The operating room remained silent.

Someone brought a crowbar, but Weston kicked it away. "Since she wants to be stubborn, then I'll let her be! Seal the door! Get ten security guards and post them here. Don't open it even if she gets on her knees and begs! Let's see how tough she really is!"

I floated behind him, watching with cold detachment. He didn't know the door was jammed not because I was blocking it, but because my stiff, lifeless body was wedged against it. If he had just pushed a little harder, pried it open a little wider, he would have seen my mangled corpse.

After the door was sealed, Weston kicked it twice more, his voice filled with venom. "Go on, Lena, keep playing your games! Let's see how long you can last! If you're really so tough, then stay in there forever! Don't come crying to me to let you out!"

I looked at his furious face, a cold smile forming on my lips.

I won't.

I won't beg you to open the door.

Because I'm never coming out of there alive.