The Seventh Year

My seventh wedding anniversary with Sarah had arrived, and my desk drawer was stuffed with photos of her and another guy. I held half of her company’s shares, but even though my bank account never saw a dime from it, I wouldn't hand them over. We knew each other's weaknesses better than anyone, and we used that knowledge to cut each other deep.

1.

Today was our seventh anniversary, and I was about to end it.

I was dying.

After choosing a plot at the cemetery and paying the bill, I called Sarah.

"How much longer until that money hits my account? I need it."

"When we're divorced, that's when the money hits."

We'd been married seven years, and I'd heard the 'd' word for three of them.

"Once the money's there, I'll sign the papers," I said, trying to sound calm.

"Is that so?" she chuckled, not surprised at all. I always did this, called her on anniversaries, so I wouldn’t be alone. Just because I missed her, which was pathetic.

I waited at the cemetery office for almost four hours, but my balance hadn’t changed. I had to use my emergency fund.

The next day, I coughed up more blood. It wouldn't stop, and I knew I needed cash fast, or I was a goner.

Getting Sarah’s attention wasn't difficult; I just had to go for her weak spot.

The elevator doors opened on the thirty-sixth floor.

As I stepped out, I bumped into a guy in a suit.

“Mr. Harrison," he said, with a smirk that showed he didn’t respect me.

I wasn't in the mood for Sarah's boy toy. "Here are your choices," I told him. "Get Sarah down here to see me, or you're fired tomorrow. I own shares; I have the power to let you go."

The guy's face went white. He gritted his teeth. “Sarah won’t let you get away with this!"

Sarah? That sounded familiar. It was what I used to call her. It felt disgusting now.

A sharp pain flared in my chest, and I pushed through it. Sarah was protective of this guy; she’d be down to yell at me soon.

During afternoon coffee hour, she arrived, livid. She knocked over the tea I’d just made, the hot liquid splashing on my foot. My skin went red instantly.

"Have you found a pair, after all these days? Going to the office to mess with Andy?”

I calmly wiped the tea off my foot, then gave a sardonic laugh. “It's not like it's the first time. You don’t need to get your knickers in a twist.”

Her eyes were full of rage. She hit me with the worst blows. “Andy is kind and decent. You with your mood swings, you’re never going to compare. The people who used to be close to you have all left; you deserve to be alone."

"If you keep on like this, you’ll die, and no one will care to bury you!”

Slap!

Her palm stung.

She was right, I was dying, and maybe no one would bury me. But that was fine; I had the plot. I’d just hire someone to do it.

"If I die, I'll come back as a ghost. You won’t be happy then." I smiled pleasantly.

We had argued so much over the years; it seemed pointless now. Maybe because I was about to die.

I tossed the divorce papers at her. "Stop preac...