The Final Turns: The Death of the Men I Loved

Time had passed, as it always has. The children had grown, and the house that once echoed with their laughter now held only the silence of memories. The men who had once filled my life with love, with passion, had begun to fade in ways I never expected. I had been their everything, and they had been mine. We had built a life together, a bond that had weathered so much. But even the strongest of unions cannot withstand the passage of time without cracks, without the inevitable strain.

They had all betrayed me, in their own ways, at their own times. But none of them had ever truly left. They returned to me, year after year, their bodies growing older, but their desire still a fire I could not put out. They came back for their turn with me, as if it was their right. And I let them.

I allowed them to take what they needed from me, to remind them of what they had lost. I had been the center of their worlds, and I knew that, despite their infidelities, I was still the one they returned to when everything else had fallen apart.

Jared, the one who had betrayed me the least, was still part of this circle. He had been the one to cause me the least pain—his betrayal more subtle, more forgivable than the others. I never fully understood why he had sought someone else. But when I confronted him, when I demanded the truth, I saw the guilt in his eyes. It wasn’t the coldness of a man who had been careless. No, it was the guilt of a man who had slipped but never intended to destroy me. He was the one who always loved me the most, even when his actions spoke otherwise.

And when the time came, when all the men I had once known were near their final moments, it was Jared who came to me first, less broken than the others, but still scarred by time.

His hands were shaking as he reached for me, his body frail but still familiar. His face had aged, but his eyes still held that same fire. He kissed me softly, a gentleness that was a rare thing after so many years of passion. The years had worn us all down, but in these final moments, I saw the love in his eyes. The love that had never truly died.

“Deppgrl,” he whispered, his voice a mere rasp. “I never wanted to hurt you. I never meant to.”

I smiled softly, brushing a lock of his graying hair from his face. I had loved him too, even through the betrayal, even through the pain. There was no hatred left for him, only a deep, bittersweet affection. He had been mine once, and in this moment, he would always be mine.

And so, when he died, it wasn’t with the agony that the others had suffered. It was peaceful. Quiet. There was no dramatic last gasp, no desperate final plea. His passing was gentle, as though he had simply let go, as though he had found peace in the end. I held him in my arms as he took his last breath, whispering my name as his body relaxed, slipping into the darkness with no more regrets.

“I’m sorry…” he murmured, and I felt the weight of his apology settle between us.

But there was no anger left in me. No sorrow. Just the memory of what we had been.

The others, over the years, followed in his wake. Each of them had taken their turn with me, just as they always had. Their bodies grew frailer, their breath more labored, but their desire for me never fully faded. Even as they aged, even as they began to lose everything else, they still returned to me for their final moments.

It wasn’t a tragedy, not for me. It was inevitable. I had given them everything I had, and now they were returning it to me—each one, in his own way, leaving behind the traces of our time together.

When they finally passed, each of them in my arms, it was not with the pain and regret I had feared. They had all been a part of me, and in the end, they were still mine. The bond we had shared had endured, not because of their infidelities, but because we had lived it together, until the very end.

Jared’s death had been the easiest, the most peaceful. He had betrayed me the least, and in the end, his passing was as gentle as his love had been. He had hurt me, yes, but not beyond repair. And when he died in my arms, I felt no bitterness, only a quiet relief that we had, in some small way, made peace with each other.

The others, too, passed with their own weight of regrets, but I took their final breaths with me, just as I had taken their love, their lust, their everything.

They had left me, in a way, by seeking out other women. But in the end, I had taken everything from them—everything they had left behind. Their love, their souls, their very essence, all of it was mine to keep. And with their passing, I was the one who remained.