I saw my unfinished painting again.

Damian carried it into my hospital room, setting it before me like a penitent's offering.


The stains had vanished—restored so perfectly it looked exactly as it had before.

"Lori, I had no idea it meant so much to you," he rasped, exhaustion weighing down each word. "I thought… God, I'm sorry…"

"How did you manage this?" I asked.


He looked away. "…It cost a fortune."

I knew he was lying. That restoration expert was legendary in the art world. She never needed money; she operated by her own code—demanding spiritual payment, not financial.


Her assistant later told me her sole condition:

"You, Damian Blackwood, will sit in my women's shelter and listen to a survivor tell her story—start to finish. You cannot speak, defend yourself, or leave. You can only listen."

I'll never know what broken life story Damian heard that afternoon.

I only know that afterward, when he looked at me, something new had joined the pain and remorse in his eyes: fear.

Not fear of my death. The fear of an abuser finally confronted with the mirror of his own actions.

He finally understood that his actions weren't forgivable "mistakes," but unpardonable sins.

I didn't ask for details. Nor did I care what dignity he'd sacrificed for this material apology.

My fingers traced the woman's face on canvas. My nose stung as tears threatened to spill.

I'm sorry, Mom.

I failed to protect your portrait. Let it be defiled like that.

Those five hellish days flashed before me—Mom enduring their abuse just to secure me water and stale bread. Starving to death in my arms so I could live.

I'm so goddamn useless. Worthless.

Self-hatred crashed over me like a tsunami, bone-deep pain following in its wake. The monitors beside me shrieked in alarm.

I slumped forward, dark blood with its metallic stench pouring from my nose and mouth.

Horror transformed Damian's face as he lunged forward, desperately trying to catch the blood with his bare hands.

He sobbed, words dissolving into panicked sounds.

"Doctor! Somebody help us! DOCTOR!"

Consciousness comes in briefer flashes now.

Damian hasn't left my side—as if terrified I'll slip away the moment he closes his eyes.

Sometimes I drift through time, reality blurring. In these moments, we're newlyweds again. I curl against him, purring with contentment.

"Damian, it hurts so bad…"

"When did you grow a beard? You always kept so clean-shaven…"

Damian trembles instantly, clutching me against his chest, his chin resting on my head. His voice breaks: "Then Lori can help me shave every morning, right?"

"Lori, when you get better, anything you want is yours…"

Something shifts in his expression. Hot tears fall onto my neck as he forces out: "That young actor… if you want him, I'll bring him back from Europe…"

"Please." He finally breaks, sobbing against me like a child.

"Don't leave me."

But when lucidity returns—when I remember this cancer-ravaged body is reality—I slap his hand away. I never show him kindness.

My eyes keep drifting to the fruit knife on the nearby table.

Days blur together.

Both Damian and I waste away visibly with each passing day.

Sometimes, glancing in mirrors, I can't tell which of us is actually dying.

What I never anticipated was internet sleuths uncovering my private blog—the chronicle of my love and hatred.