His Dying Wish

Brenda meant well, damn it. She signed up to keep a dying old man company that summer—purely platonic, just chats and quiet hours with Gerry. But the bastard wouldn't stop: compliments dripping like honey, gifts piling up until they buried her. It hit overload fast, especially when she mentioned college. His face twisted, eyes flashing fury. He laid into her, guilt-tripping hard—'After all I've done?'—until she caved. Delayed her dreams, packed her bags, moved into his shadowed house. Deep down, she figured he'd croak soon anyway. Easy out. Weeks dragged like chains. The weight crushed her—her life on ice, his endless needs sucking the air from the room. Misery clawed at her gut. She plotted an escape, guilt gnawing like a rat in the walls. Ditch a dying man? It twisted her insides. Then Gerry drops the bomb: change the deal, let's fuck. Brenda freezes, heart pounding. But hell, why not? One final blaze for the poor sap—a hot, sweaty memory to soften the goodbye. She nods, agrees, body tensing for the plunge. Yet shadows whisper: will he let go that easy? Or does this spark ignite a fire she can't quench?