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The Duzy House of Mourning
She was still in the grip of a contraction when the truck hit them. The force of it slid them to the curb, then tipped their car onto two tires where they teetered before the full weight crashed down on top of them. Slowly and somehow unfiltered, she captured what could not possibly be happening, frame by frame. She watched the inside of their car bend in on itself, and on them, glass and steel giving way under the load. The love of her life groaned a torturous “Noooo” as he was crushed against her, then into her. She heard their bones break and her head crack, felt sensation in her legs evaporate and breath gush from her chest. And she felt the warm wet of blood run across her face, but she did not know if it was hers or his.
Her husband was holding her hand when he died, and she was a mere breath behind him when she felt it. The woman couldn’t fathom it—this tiny kick, this gentle quiver in the midst of unimaginable destruction. Death was next to her holding her hand. Life was still beating inside what was left of her. How could that possibly be?
And in that instant, she was granted the unthinkable: a choice.