Thicker Than Water

"Hey," he said sweetly, walking through the front door, dropping the heavy green bag with a vibrant thump. I smiled at him and he came to me then, embracing me and kissing my forehead. I squirmed gently against him, but it felt nice to have him hold me again.

It had been so long since I had seen him, such an interminable wait for him to walk back through that door, and now he was here. He was back with me again and I felt my self being uplifted by our love for one another. It was a shame that I had to break his heart on the day of his triumphant return.

He set me down and I began to lead him down the hallway.

"Where are you going?" He asked, but I didn't answer. I simply walked, and he followed me, that silly little grin that he'd always had still plastered to his face. I tried to memorize that look, certain that it would be a long time before I would see it again, if ever. This was going to hurt me almost as much as it would hurt him.

I led him to the bathroom and showed him his wife's body, surrounded as it was by a crimson pool, all but drying and tacky on the linoleum floor. I let him cling to me as the tears came and he wept, great racking sobs, that in other circumstances might have been unseemly from a soldier. What little consolation I could offer, I did, but it wasn't enough. It could never be enough. Even so, I promised him wordlessly that everything would be alright.

And I stayed with him, remaining his forever after, consoling and caring for him through it all, even years later when he found a new wife. They had three beautiful children, and still I loved him and remained his. Right down to the day that he held my tiny paw as they pushed in that sharp, sharp needle. The horrible aches and pains in my body slowly subsided. And I looked up at him, and I loved him, and he promised me without words, that everything would be alright.