What was she even supposed to do? To take it all as is?
There were no letters after the first few years. No body to bury. Just silence. Officials had said he was probably lost-like so many others-beneath rubble or beneath lies. She had waited. Hoped...
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"You look just as charming as the day you left," Jane whispered, the words barely escaping her lips like a fragile sigh carried by the wind. Her voice trembled with both tenderness and fear, brittle under the weight of memories and sorrow. She looked down at John—no, not John. Not entirely.
The man before her was a grotesque echo of who he used to be. whose uncorrupted hand had her suspended by the neck, pinned with unrelenting strength against the cracked, blood-streaked wall.
His grip was iron. Cold. Steady. But his corrupted hand—taken over by the infection that had torn through his body and mind, which had warped beyond recognition—hovered menacingly at her side, twitching with the promise of violence. The corruption had not only ravaged his flesh—it had poisoned his mind. But she saw something else behind those dead, storm-filled eyes. A flicker. A shadow of the man he used to be.
Jane's eyes, wide with tears, remained locked on his face. Beneath the grime, the blood, the shadows—she still saw him. Somewhere in that storm of rage and confusion, her John was buried. She had to believe that.
"I will fall in love with you," Jane choked out, voice shaking as her trembling hands reached up, cupping his face, "over and over again..." her thumbs brushed against his skin—the warm side—longing to remember, to feel, to anchor him.
"I don't care how, where, or when.." she breathed, her vision blurring further as tears streamed freely down her cheeks, her chest beginning to tighten. "No matter how long it's been... you're mine, John!" she cried out, her voice cracking with emotion, tears cascading freely down her face like a dam broken.
The desperation in her voice was like thunder. Her arms trembled, muscles weak from lack of oxygen, but she held on. Her vision blurred, not just from sorrow, but from the sheer overwhelming ache of holding on to a ghost in a living shell.
"I don't care if you're not the same person," she continued, her words trembling like glass, ready to shatter. "You're always my husband. I've been waiting—!" Her voice hitched, a sob catching in her throat. She was cut off abruptly as his grip tightened, like a vice of iron, pushing her deeper into the wall, crushing the air from her lungs, slamming her harder against the concrete wall with a cruel, unnatural strength.
Pain shot through her spine, sharp and unrelenting. Her head thumped against the wall. A growl rumbled from John—deep, animalistic, full of fury and confusion.She coughed out a breath, voice hoarse.
"Waiting... waiting—!" she cried again, barely coherent through the strain, tears mixing with blood now trickling from her temple. Her fingers clawed at his wrist, but he was immovable. Her arms felt like they weighed a thousand pounds.
Her skin turned pale, lips tinged with blue, but she forced her mouth open again."I've been waiting—John!" she cried, hoarsely, nearly breathless. Her voice cracked into a raw whisper. "Please... come back to me..."Her hands clawed weakly at his wrist, trying to pry his fingers away, but it was useless.
Her strength was fading, her chest heaving desperately for air that would not come.His corrupted hand twitching violently now, knuckles popping, claws flexing, as if torn between tearing her apart or pulling her closer. Something inside him warred—rage and remembrance clashing in the void of his fractured soul.
She gasped, her voice barely a whisper now. "John... I've waited..."Her body was yanked and slammed again, like a rag doll caught in a storm. But her spirit remained, her heart stubbornly refusing to abandon him. "I waited—!" she cried again, though the word barely passed her lips, broken by the strain and the tightening noose of his hand.
His eyes—once hollow—flickered. Something cracked behind them. A flash of memory: her smile in the morning sun, her laugh echoing in the kitchen, the way she used to whisper "I love you" as if it were a promise etched into the stars.
Jane's hand, trembling and bruised, reached up again—this time slower, softer—as if reaching for a dream. Her fingers brushed against his cheek one last time. His skin was warm. Familiar.
"I've been... waiting..." she whispered. Her voice was almost gone now, the light in her eyes dimming.A long silence fell between them as her limbs slowly lost strength. Jane's hands, now weak and barely responsive, reached up once more.
She traced her fingertips along his jawline. It was a touch filled not with fear, but love. Her lips curved into a small, tear-soaked smile as she whispered, "For you..." her body hung limp in his hold, her final breath slipping through her lips like a prayer.
Then her eyes fluttered shut, and she was still.
John stood frozen, her body in his arms. But something was wrong—terribly wrong. The satisfaction, the twisted joy that killing brought him since the corruption took hold, wasn't there. Not even the numbness. Instead, it came like a wave—slow, suffocating, and agonizing.
Pain.
It bloomed in his chest like a black sun, growing larger and heavier with every breath he didn't know he could still feel. His hand trembled—both hands. The corrupted one, so used to violence, fell slack by his side.
He looked at her face—serene, peaceful, and radiant even in death—and it broke him in ways that blade or bullet never could.
There was no corruption nor screams of triumph. No rush of the usual twisted pleasure. Not the joy of killing that the corruption once fed him. No... instead, it was like the earth itself cracked beneath his feet.
He loosened his grip.
Her body slumped into his arms, weightless and warm. Too warm. Too soft. Too real.
His knees gave out beneath him as he sank to the floor, cradling her broken frame against his chest. His arms—both corrupted and slightly pure—wrapped around her like a man trying to hold onto something already slipping away.
"Jane..." he whispered– he tried to, at least. His voice was gravelly and unfamiliar, as if he had forgotten the sound of his own name let alone hers. "Jane...?"
But there was no answer.
He buried his face in her neck, inhaling the scent of blood and sweat and memories. The world around him fell into a haze. He trembled violently. Something inside him cracked, and from it poured a wave of anguish so immense it nearly choked him. The corruption that controlled him was relentlessly spiking up, the sounds of nothing but static coding was there to speak for his stead.
Then at long last, a long, hollow wail ripped from his throat—static, broken, and desperate. The beast inside recoiled, and for the first time, it felt small. Powerless. Silent.
Because for the first time in years, John remembered.
He remembered her laughter.He remembered how she would wait for him at the window when he came home.
He remembered the vows they made under the stars.
And now, all he had was the weight of her in his arms and the unbearable silence she left behind. A hollow cry tore from his throat, echoing through the desolate space like a wolf mourning the moon.
For the first time in what felt like centuries, John remembered what it meant to be human.
