“No,” he said, wrestling the prescription out of his wife’s frail hands. “You’re not having any more.”
“They help!” she cried, her eyes brimming with tears. “What do you have against me getting better?”
He ripped up the prescription and tossed the pieces in the bin outside the pharmacy. “They are not making you better,” he growled. “They’re making you worse.”
“It’s good medicine, it’s-”
“There’s no such thing as good medicine.” He looked away from her and down the high street, watching people walk by. None of them showed any signs of illness; a stark contrast to the wrinkled, greying figure his wife had become. He turned back to her. “You’ve had enough,” he said.
His wife’s eyes were still as young as when he had first met her, but the rest of her frame betrayed her. She tried to take his hand weakly in her own, but he pushed it away.
“I’m dying,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he replied. “And I’m tired of you delaying the inevitable.”
Every day during February I am writing and posting a piece of creative writing inspired by a prompt. The prompts are being taken from here, although I may shuffle some of the days around if I fancy.