A life, not a life sentence

The suitcase hit the bottom step, then landed with a thud.

'Are you okay?'

'Just about,' Cath said, regaining her balance.

Paul glided into the hallway, his electric wheelchair jerking to a halt.

'Where're you going?'

'My mother's.'

'You're leaving me?'

'I just can't do this anymore. I'm twenty-seven. I want night’s out. Kids. A life, not a life sentence.'

'Is that all I am now - a burden? What about until death do us part?'

'If I stayed that's probably what would happen.'

'You'd kill yourself?'

'I'd kill you.'

‘Perhaps I should’ve died in the accident.’

‘I’m sorry, Paul.’



A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.