We had always joked about it—who would go first if the end came for both of us together. It was a morbid little game, one born from late-night talks and too much wine. Rock-paper-scissors, a child’s game, would be the decider. We laughed back then, never dreaming the moment would come when we’d actually play for keeps.
Until tonight.
The storm had rolled in faster than anyone predicted. The radio crackled with evacuation warnings, but it was too late for us. The dam upstream had broken, and the floodwaters were rising around the house. Escape wasn’t an option anymore. We had moved to higher ground, to the attic, but the water followed relentlessly.
My wife, Emily, sat across from me on the floor, her face pale but calm. She always had a quiet strength about her, even in the face of fear.
“We can’t both make it,” she said, her voice steady. “The raft can only hold one. You know that.”
I nodded. My throat felt tight. Words were useless now.
“So, we play?” she asked.
I didn’t want to. God, I didn’t want to. But I couldn’t argue with her logic. The water lapped at the edges of the attic hatch, dark and icy, a relentless reminder of our ticking clock.
“Best of three,” I whispered, my voice trembling.
She nodded, and we raised our hands.
“Rock, paper, scissors…”
Her hand came down as paper. Mine was rock. She smiled faintly, a flicker of relief crossing her face. One point for her.
We played again.
“Rock, paper, scissors…”
This time, I chose scissors. She chose rock. Her lips quirked in a sad smile. Two to zero. She had won.
But I didn’t stop. My hand fell to paper the third time as her scissors cut through it effortlessly. She tilted her head, her brows furrowing.
“Why did you do that?” she whispered.
“Because I love you,” I said, my voice cracking. “And I can’t let you go. Not like this.”
She shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. “No, it’s not fair. You—”
The water surged, breaking through the attic door. We had no more time for arguments. I grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the makeshift raft we’d tied together from spare wood. She tried to resist, but I was stronger.
“Get on,” I commanded.
“No!” she screamed, thrashing against me. But I shoved her onto the raft and pushed it toward the attic window, where the current would carry her to safety.
“Michael, no!” she cried, reaching for me, but I stepped back into the rising water.
“I let you win,” I said softly, my chest tightening. “You have to go.”
The last thing I saw was her face, a mask of anguish, as the current swept her away. Then the water closed over my head, cold and unyielding, dragging me down into darkness.
As the world faded, I felt no regret. She would live. And for me, that was victory enough.