I lost track of how many times I tried to convince her to get help, tried to tell her she wasn’t invincible, that it would catch up with her sooner or later.
She’d never listen, just laugh and tap me on the nose. “Don’t be such a worry wart,” she’d say. “I’m fine. You know I always come out on top.”
Damn her. So now I’m standing in this stupid black suit in this stupid graveyard listening to ‘Sorry for your loss’ over and over and over.
Sure, sis, you’ll always come out on top. Except when you’re six feet under.
Word Count: 101
Writer: Simon Hole