A gentle breeze brushed over us, as we lay in the fresh grass, staring at the night sky, stars oh so small, yet indescribably huge. The soft lighting was great as a way to calm me down, prepare me for what was to come. I checked my pockets, the gun safely tucked in.

"Take my hand," he said, with a soft and tragic tone. I did. It was warm, but rugged and dirty. It brought more comfort.

4 hours left, until he starts losing his grip. We lay in the dim and grassy field. I sat up as he did too. I stared into his deep eyes, eyes of sadness, and eyes of regret. Truly windows to the soul. I slipped out the pistol.

"Do you wanna do it, yet?" I asked him sadly.

"No, I want to lie here until we need to do it," he answered softly.

As we laid back down, I took his hand once again. I wasn't ready, I was glad he didn't choose death yet. I stared at the moon. It was a new moon, marking the beginning of a month. I searched the stars, beautiful things they are. A true reminder of how small we are compared to them, and how much there is to the universe, beyond humankind, beyond our rich history, lays a million more. I looked to my side, and saw him looking up at the same sky. I didn't want to lose him. I looked at my watch, 3 hours have passed.

"Hey," I gently whispered to him. "It's... it's time."

"Alright," he quietly answered, somberly. We both sat up, and I once again stared into his eyes. This time, eyes of fear, eyes of doom. I slowly brought up the gun, and aligned the sight markers upon his forehead. A Glock-19 handgun, characterized by a cubic slide. 9 bullets left.

"I don't want to do it," I quietly sobbed. I looked to see his face, one of fear, and pain. *I have to do it, for his own sake.* I nodded and pulled the trigger. I knew he was dead when I heard the loud "crack" of the pistol, and he fell over. At least, I had saved him from his illness. The bite stings, but the conversion is the real suffering.