My feet bounced as I waited in the dimly lit examination room. The dark curtains blocked out any hints of sunlight, the only light source being the single fluorescent lamp standing in the center of the room.

Oftentimes, it’s said that people make a home, not the place.

She was the epitome of fragile beauty: lips slightly parted, rosy flush tinting the apples of her cheeks, raven hair framing her face. I knelt there, holding her wrist, touching the papery skin that shielded her blue-green veins. A ball of unshakeable guilt weighed down my chest.

It was mid-November, 1983 when James first got sick. It started with a dry cough and exhaustion; in all ten years that Edward had been with him, the occasional affliction was nothing out of the ordinary.