PROMPT: write a story from the perspective of a woman on her deathbed

Sepia patches tainted my vision as my family clustered around me, moths to a flame. 

No, it is stupid to think that I am a flame – perhaps I was in my youth, but those days are long gone. I shall never get the chance to reclaim those bygone years. I shall never get any chances after tonight. 

For tonight, I depart. I'll leave this plane of existence and follow onto whatever lies ahead: heaven, some may hope for me. I'd much prefer the dark silence of nothingness. 

I'd much prefer the dark silence of nothingness over having to see my husband again. I shudder, leading one of my daughters to think me cold so she pulls the quilt closer to my quivering chin – no, I merely feel Death entering the room at the mention of my godforsaken husband. 

Christ, that man was brutal. Only to me though, thankfully. He never hit my girls; I made sure of that. 

Take me in their place, don't hurt them, I beg you. 

Apparently hitting me was sufficient, painting me black and blue in places no one would see. 

And now I beg to Death, that sulking hooded figure lingering in the corner; take me away from him. 

It's only been a few years since his death, since the end of the beatings – yet I still cower whenever anyone says my name a little too loudly. They put it down to old age, bless their innocent little hearts. 

I never let a single one of them know how their father treated me; I'd much rather they remember him as loving and kind – the way he was outside of closed doors. It was only in the darkness that his fists would make contact with my ribs – only in the darkness did I become his personal punching bag, swinging left and right in accordance with his opposing hooks. 

The secret of abuse is one I intend to take to my grave; just as well, my voice is so weak now that all I am left with is a constant inner monologue. An endless flow of thoughts spiralled around my mind; none remaining long enough to congeal and form anything resembling an intention. 

No, I am far too old to think beyond tonight now. Don't take me to where he is; it becomes an internalised chant. 

I could just about stand the punishment in life; after death, I've no doubt that the suffering would be eternal, just as 'God' promised heaven would be eternal life. I'd rather Death send me straight to Hell, to burn for my sins as a bad wife. 

Nothing was ever enough for my husband – the beatings started just a week into our marriage; a week too late for me to escape. 

All I could do throughout my life was raising my girls to know that they didn't ever have to settle for a man who didn't deserve them. And now, as I gaze around at my family one last time, I see that I have, after all, done an all right job. 

I depart peacefully not long after.

(516 words)