'kay. This is my first fanfiction I've ever posted anywhere…so…please don't think too badly of it. nervous giggle

Disclaimer: I own nothing in this story except for the actual story itself. Meaning, I don't own the characters. Got it? Okay, don't sue me.

/.prolouge./

Victor Van Dort was a sick man. Not in the mentally sick sense, but the physically sick sense. For a little over three fourths of a month, he had been plagued with something that was causing him to have almost constant hollow coughing fits, nightly sweats, and terrible fevers. The disease had also caused him to become rather emaciated. During the first bits of his illness, he considered going to go and see some kind of doctor and get medical attention, but at that time, it wasn't a big deal…

But now it was. He had finally gone to go and see the doctor…and he figured it was tuberculosis.

"If it is…then…it's a little too late to do anything." Said the doctor days before, staring straight ahead in a solemn manner. So Victor returned home to spend his last days with his wife. As cliché as it was, he knew that he didn't have much time left. There were shorter pauses in between his coughing fits, and each time they became rougher. Sooner than later, he wasn't going to be able to catch his breath. So, there he lay in his bed back at home, head propped up on several pillows, his wife, Victoria, seated on the edge of the bed next to him.

This is where he wanted to die. Not necessarily how, but where. Here with his wife.

Gack. Most cliché thing ever. Please don't kill me…read and review…I may continue, I dunno. My writing's much better when I have a reason to write…so…yeah, like I said, review if you want more.