Used by the speaker or writer to refer to the person or persons he or she is addressing...as the subject of predication or in attributive or predicative agreement with that subject.
Everyone knows who you are. Everyone is wrong.
We had this thing, David and I did, where I would ask him if he would die for me.
"Of course," he would say.
"What if you didn't have to? Would you die for me just because I asked you to?"
"Yes," he'd say, though less certainly.
"What if it was completely frivolous?"
"Mina?"
"What if I did it just to turn myself on? Would you still?"
"I...yes," he'd say, and there would be even more of a tremor in his voice.
"And what," I'd say finally, caressing his bound cock, "if I made you do it to yourself? Would you die by your own hand? Would you slide a needle into your arm and squeeze the poison out, and watch me till I came, and death took you away from me?"
David wouldn't say a word. He didn't have to--his eyes said it all.
I would never do such a thing, of course. There is a limit to even my cruelty. But we loved to play with the thought that his life was mine to control, to use as I saw fit, and at last to end, if that's what I wanted. A beautiful fantasy, that's what it was.
Or so I thought.
One year ago today, he went in for a routine examination. While he was there, he mentioned these small sores on his arm that didn't seem to go away. The doctor didn't think they were serious--they looked like small bruises, he said--but just to be safe, he took some blood and urine tests.
We didn't think about it anymore until a couple of weeks later, when the doctor called back. David wasn't home, so I took the call. "You'd better sit down for this," the doctor said.
David had a rare blood disease, something I'd never heard of. He had six months to live, maybe nine if he was lucky. The words sank like concrete. It was impossible to believe, really--David looked as healthy as a horse aside from the scars, which were no larger than they were a month ago. I don't know about David, but I half thought about just leaving the doctor's office and going home, and forgetting it all, thinking the whole thing would disappear. In the end, he convinced me (and maybe himself) that the best thing was to confront this head on.
David quit work, of course, and we took a lot of his retirement savings and decided to make our last year together the best one. I couldn't help crying a little as the bank informed us of the penalty for early withdrawal.
"Funny, that's not her usual penalty for early withdrawal," David quipped.
I laughed and wanted to hit him all at once. Of course he could be flippant--he didn't have to be the one left behind. We explained to the bank and they assured us they would prepare the forms for us to sign so that we could enjoy ourselves. Things were better when we got to Aruba. We found a place that had secluded bungalows and our own personal chef. We ate dinner, got the chef to leave us alone, and then I beat the crap out of David.
He wasn't one of the lucky ones; in fact, he was downright unlucky. We were only two or three months into our second honeymoon when he suddenly became so weak he couldn't even walk more than a couple of blocks without collapsing in pain. We really didn't have much of a choice but to check him into a hospital.
David's parents had both died when he was a teenager, and he was an only child. The hospital could do blood transfusions, and I went in there as often as I could to give my own, but finding a bone marrow donor so he could make his own healthy blood would be tricky. He was registered on a global database, but there was little else we could do but wait.
In the meantime, the hospital costs were mounting. I was working extra hours so he wouldn't get transferred to County. I was dog tired, but it was worth it to be able to see him in the evenings, when we would shoot it for a couple of hours until they made me leave.
"You look awful," David said.
"You're one to talk, Mr Tubes-in-the-Nose," I shot back.
"It's actually not too bad. I think it will be a fashion statement in the not-so-distant future. Everyone will be wearing them."
I joined in. "People will pay extra for name-brand tubes. Nike will make a pair of cross-training tubes with their fucking swoosh on it."
David laughed. It was heaven to hear him laugh. Then he said something that still makes my blood chill when I think of it.
"I want to do it, Mina."
We hadn't talked about that in months, but somehow, the moment he said it, I knew exactly what he was talking about.
"Are you serious?" I asked, but there was no mistaking the passion in his eyes.
"Yes." He closed his eyes for a second. "You don't know how much it hurts, Mina. All this"--he waved his hand at the medical paraphernalia--"just so I can hang around for another two or three months in extreme pain, with tubes hanging out of every orifice? No way. You don't want that, not even you."
He paused. "Mina, I want my death to mean something. It's you, it's all you."
I got up and turned toward the door. I didn't want him to see, not with that piercing gaze of his.
"I have to think about it. This is really hard."
For the next week, it consumed me. Every night, I fell asleep dreaming of him dying in my arms, each time in some inventive, self-inflicted way. During the day, I alternated between coming up with things I could make him do to himself, and realizing what a monster I was for even considering them. Half a dozen times a day, I would pick up the phone, meaning to tell him to forget it, that it was just too much to ask. (For him? For me? Even now I'm not quite sure.) I never stayed on long enough for him to answer.
One day, when I went to see him after a long day, his doctor was with him. They both turned to me when I showed up in the doorway.
"Dr Sharp has this experimental treatment in mind. It could give me an extra few months. It's not a cure, but it'll keep me alive for a while longer, and it'll help future patients."
I don't know, I just had this tingling sensation, something that told me that this was it. I had to do something.
"No." They didn't respond, so I said it again. "No, you're not getting that treatment."
"Mina?" David asked, but I think he figured out what I was thinking of.
Dr Sharp cut in. "The hospital will pay for it. You have to realize, what he does will be extremely important in helping other people with the same illness. This is an opportunity for him to make a difference."
"I'm afraid I have to say that I understand."
You were very brave about it, I see that now. At the time I thought it was just for you.
I snuck back into his hospital room that night; I didn't want any extra time to change my mind. It was the dead of night, and I knew from what he told me that no one would come in to check on him for another couple of hours. By that time, with any luck, David would be out of his misery. My heart was pounding with the thought of what I was about to do.
He was asleep when I went in. His forehead was sweaty, the poor thing, and he was moaning a little. I winced. I just wanted to sit here forever and watch him breathe, but I didn't have forever. I had a couple of hours.
But, I thought, let me have this moment just a little while longer. Don't let this end quite yet. And so, for a few minutes, I watched him. In the light filtering in through the crack in the doorway, I could barely see him, but I watched him. And then I rested my head on his chest.
He woke up.
"Mina?" He coughed.
"It's time," I said. Now that he was awake, I was stern. Unforgiving. Cruel.
David just nodded.
"Just lie still. Don't make a noise. In fact, I want you to put your hand over your mouth. I don't want anyone accidentally coming in to disturb me." I pulled the bedsheet down. He was naked beneath it. I looked longingly at his cock. It was still soft, but thick. I gave it a short kiss, and then a longer one, and then longer still. I snuck a peek up at him--sure enough, he had his hand over his mouth, muffling his moans.
But these were moans of pleasure. I went on licking his cock, feeling it thicken even more, feeling the head of it swell and warm and pulse, till I could feel his pulse in it. And then, just at the crucial moment, I stopped. He gave an extra urgent moan, and I slapped his cock. "Silence!" I whispered.
I hiked up my skirt and took off my panties, and put them on the nightstand. I clambered onto the bed, and sat astride his cock. Ever so slowly, I lowered myself onto his cock, and I started fucking him.
His hand was still over his mouth. "Don't you even dare think of coming until I say you can," I hissed. "Take your hand away."
He complied, a strange look on his face.
"Now kiss me."
He did. Oh dear, did he kiss me. David kissed better than anyone I'd ever known, and that's saying something. Something about the way his tongue played along my lips--oh god, for a moment, I almost thought of backing down, just so I wouldn't lose that kiss. But at some point, I pulled away.
"That's the last one you'll ever get, slave."
"No, please, Mina--"
"That's final. Now, David...ask me for permission to die." I was hoping he couldn't see my face as I said that.
David didn't skip a beat. "Mina. May I die?"
I had planned to make him beg, but I couldn't speak. I couldn't make my voice--I cracked, or something.
David must have figured out something was wrong. "Mina? Please, Mina. I...I need to do it. I need to die for you. Please, Mina, say the word. Just say the word, I'm begging you. Just let me die. For you, Mina."
I was trembling, I know I was trembling, when I said "Yes."
Now, this might seem incredible, but we had never discussed exactly how he was going to...do it. I looked at the clock. Plenty of time, but I still had to think of something without leaving the room. I sat there, dazed for a second, hoping something would hit me.
"Tell me you love me, David."
"I love you, Mina."
"But who do you love, David?"
"You, Mina." There was a long pause. "You."
"Then put your hand over your mouth again. And this time...cover your nose too."
I thought he would do it right off. He didn't. It took him a real long time, and even when he finally did cover his mouth and nose, all the while he was looking at me with those damned eyes of his.
I couldn't take it. I made him cover his eyes with his other hand.
It happened so quickly I wish I could freeze it and store it away. We fucked. I was breathing so loud I couldn't believe that no one outside could hear us, and David--well, David was grunting breathlessly, of course. His head shook from side to side, and I struggled to keep it out of my head what he was really doing.
When I was about to come, I cradled his head in my hands and whispered to him. "Now come, David. Come into me."
I held off for just a second, and then I came. He obeyed me. For the last time, he obeyed me, and I felt his come jet into me, cover me all over inside. His hands were still clamped tightly over his face as if they had been glued there.
I slumped over him, panting deeply. With a sudden pang of despair I realized I couldn't feel his pulse beneath me anymore. I kissed him, even though I had told him I wouldn't. I cried, even though I had promised myself I wouldn't. And I murmured words of comfort into his ears, even though I was the only one left to comfort.
"It's all right, David. It's all right."
Some time later, I was cleaning him up and prying his hands away. I looked up at the clock one last time. I still had half an hour before the nurse made his rounds. I put his pillow over his face, wrapped his arms around it, and then I picked up my belongings and snuck back out.
It's been more than half a year since that night. Every now and then I wonder to myself if I did the right thing. Did I cost lives by preventing research from being done? Did I force David into something he didn't want to do? Did I commit murder, or did I just compress months of dull, aimless suffering into two minutes of acute, terrible, but lovely agony?
But then I see David's picture on the mantle, and I know, I just know, that I made the right decision. He was rare, the one-in-a-million that could do it and truly believe in it. And it makes being the survivor not so hard. It's weird sometimes, with me not being religious or anything, but there was something so beautiful and sacred about the way he died.
"You." That was his last word. When I die I want to have that kind of conviction. I love you, David.
I have been unconscionably selfish. Forgive me. I know you can't hear me, but oh please, Mina, forgive me.
Copyright (c) 1998 {hamlet}Ophelia