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Description
The swiftest thief, Thanatos, stole Aleksandr Chekhov's wife, Irina, away from is esteeming grasp without notice. A simple digestive virus triggered Irina's end; vomit was accidentally inhaled into the tender lungs of Aleksandr's young beauty. Undiagnosed until after the hour of quietus, aspiration pneumonia deviously burgled the heart of Aleksandr, leaving it empty without his angel Irina, his reason for life.
-
He had worshipped every feature of the once lively Irina. Her beauty was of an ancient mien, nothing like the wide-hipped and bronzed idols of today. Her features were not exotic; rather, they suggested that she was of Slavic royalty. Aleksandr would marvel the height of Irina's cheekbones which graced her face unusually highly: almost a flaw. A delicate jaw, wide set and slightly up tilting eyes of ice, and the sweetest bow lips under an equally stunning nose had been arranged on her palate of ivory skin. Chestnut locks, raven lashes, and dramatically arching eyebrows enticed interest in her face. More importantly, Aleksandr cherished the intellect that had pierced through Irina's eyes.

Days of mutual devotion, where Irina relished charming the ears of her spouse with Tchaikovsky pieces on the cello and where Aleksandr stroked his young wife's soft cheeks are history. Irina had valued her husband's happiness more than anything. Their love for each other was endless and more important than life itself... Those days had ended forever. What a shame neither lover knew their fate until the cool winds of death were blowing their lives away!
-
In her final hours, Irina's high brow poured sweat while her bones shivered. Below the goddess's bosom, her lungs suffered with every short, shallow breath she respired. Aleksandr bravely nursed her, leaving her side only once. Irina had begun coughing a blood-tinged mucus. Every cough whipped more pain into her sharply gasping lungs, and each cough ejected more sputum than the last. Aleksandr left her side once; he left to retrieve some tissues and a basin for his dying wife. Compassion was in the thoughts of Aleksandr and he never even stopped to consider whether Irina would survive; he was sure she would.

During Aleksandr's absence, Irina felt the weakness and fatigue of death drawing nearer. This was the moment of realization: Irina was dying. She desperately grabbed the pen and journal from the bedside table and scribbled a final note to her cherished husband. In a fit of coughing, she dropped that diary beside the bed. Aleksandr rushed back into the room unaware of Irina's farewell notice. Her voice was being suffocated by the sanguine tainted mucus ejecting from her pretty lips. Aleksandr wiped a trickle of the malignant juice from his beloved's neck and felt her draw one ending, harrowing breath.

The grown man lamented tempests on the ruby stained sheets below his wife. All agony and despair enveloped in the sinister streams from his eyes. He cursed God for stealing so pure an angel from Earth, and he wept over the girl whose very touch would enrapture him! He bawled because she was no more, gone forever, and never to inspire love again.
-
In the grim and somber weeks following Irina's burial in the frigid Moscow graveyard, dismal grief flooded the morbid Aleksandr. The cruel anguish and bitterness he felt towards God for stealing the young jewel forced misery to dominate all thoughts. He lacked comprehension for the tragedy; how was it fair for a maiden of 20 years to be stolen by the angels? The bleeding heart of Aleksandr could not live without Irina's smiling face, without the summer cello concerts on the roof, or without her delicate hand upon him.

Weeks of sorrowing became months of pensive torment. Aleksandr's depression dangerously worsened. Any happiness pierced him with bitter memories of the angel out of his grasps; all good in the world became a good that Irina would not feel, decided Aleksandr. A suicidal decision led him to Petrov Kündinger, a drug dealer in Kamsko-Votkimsk, a small industrial town near Moscow. Petrov lived in the district where rape and prostitution were as common as bubblegum on the sidewalk. Aleksandr was unshaken by the surroundings while he purchased the codeine with which he planned to take his life.
-
Fine wrinkles webbed the icy, sullen face of Aleksandr. His blonde hair had begun to gray at the early age of 35. He had been so much older than his gorgeous bride, but their love had held stronger than the love of any mortal. The loss showed in the weary Russian's silver-blue eyes; he looked as if he'd aged a lifetime in the few months since his wife demised. His chapped lips and chiseled jaw beamed agony in the very expression on his face. His stature at six and a half feet slumped bearing the weight of living life without meaning. His figure seemed hollow, because he had neglected his health with mourning the beautiful Irina. The once handsome and muscular Aleksandr had become a morbid and melancholy soul.
-
Our distraught widower shuffled into the bleak bedroom, he sat on the bed. He had walked these steps many a time before in his mind. Orally consuming the 6 tablespoons of codeine which would certainly be sufficient as a poison, Aleksandr waited in the few minutes of lucidity remaining. The room stayed unchanged from the night of Irina's tragedy. Reaching down, he uncovered her journal from the crevice between the bed and the night stand. Instinctively turning to the last page, as if driven by Irina's angel herself, he found a haunting passage. The paper which was stained with the bloody mucus of perfection's dying lungs read in a scribbled and shaky hand:
"To my dearest husband,
Death seeks me. My body has given up all protest, at last. For me, my final wish and only will is for you to continue living. Live in happiness, because it's your duty to experience what I'll miss. Be happy for me, darling. I love you... Remember me, remember to---"
There at the end the pen had fallen away from the paper.

Irina only desired Aleksandr to be happy. Oh, what bitter self-hatred encompassed him! The widower had sinfully slain his last chance to make his princess happy. He lost his final chance to redeem himself; what pain stabbed through him! Abhorrence for his brutal and selfish suicide accompanied the evasion of hostility in his mind. The world became a whirlwind of rancor until the sweet and deadly venom of the codeine overwhelmed his body. Thanatos returned to claim the second in a pair, neither could survive without the other. They loved each other more than life itself.

Description
The swiftest thief, Thanatos, stole Aleksandr Chekhov's wife, Irina, away from is esteeming grasp without notice. A simple digestive virus triggered Irina's end; vomit was accidentally inhaled into the tender lungs of Aleksandr's young beauty. Undiagnosed until after the hour of quietus, aspiration pneumonia deviously burgled the heart of Aleksandr, leaving it empty without his angel Irina, his reason for life.
-
He had worshipped every feature of the once lively Irina. Her beauty was of an ancient mien, nothing like the wide-hipped and bronzed idols of today. Her features were not exotic; rather, they suggested that she was of Slavic royalty. Aleksandr would marvel the height of Irina's cheekbones which graced her face unusually highly: almost a flaw. A delicate jaw, wide set and slightly up tilting eyes of ice, and the sweetest bow lips under an equally stunning nose had been arranged on her palate of ivory skin. Chestnut locks, raven lashes, and dramatically arching eyebrows enticed interest in her face. More importantly, Aleksandr cherished the intellect that had pierced through Irina's eyes.

Days of mutual devotion, where Irina relished charming the ears of her spouse with Tchaikovsky pieces on the cello and where Aleksandr stroked his young wife's soft cheeks are history. Irina had valued her husband's happiness more than anything. Their love for each other was endless and more important than life itself... Those days had ended forever. What a shame neither lover knew their fate until the cool winds of death were blowing their lives away!
-
In her final hours, Irina's high brow poured sweat while her bones shivered. Below the goddess's bosom, her lungs suffered with every short, shallow breath she respired. Aleksandr bravely nursed her, leaving her side only once. Irina had begun coughing a blood-tinged mucus. Every cough whipped more pain into her sharply gasping lungs, and each cough ejected more sputum than the last. Aleksandr left her side once; he left to retrieve some tissues and a basin for his dying wife. Compassion was in the thoughts of Aleksandr and he never even stopped to consider whether Irina would survive; he was sure she would.

During Aleksandr's absence, Irina felt the weakness and fatigue of death drawing nearer. This was the moment of realization: Irina was dying. She desperately grabbed the pen and journal from the bedside table and scribbled a final note to her cherished husband. In a fit of coughing, she dropped that diary beside the bed. Aleksandr rushed back into the room unaware of Irina's farewell notice. Her voice was being suffocated by the sanguine tainted mucus ejecting from her pretty lips. Aleksandr wiped a trickle of the malignant juice from his beloved's neck and felt her draw one ending, harrowing breath.

The grown man lamented tempests on the ruby stained sheets below his wife. All agony and despair enveloped in the sinister streams from his eyes. He cursed God for stealing so pure an angel from Earth, and he wept over the girl whose very touch would enrapture him! He bawled because she was no more, gone forever, and never to inspire love again.
-
In the grim and somber weeks following Irina's burial in the frigid Moscow graveyard, dismal grief flooded the morbid Aleksandr. The cruel anguish and bitterness he felt towards God for stealing the young jewel forced misery to dominate all thoughts. He lacked comprehension for the tragedy; how was it fair for a maiden of 20 years to be stolen by the angels? The bleeding heart of Aleksandr could not live without Irina's smiling face, without the summer cello concerts on the roof, or without her delicate hand upon him.

Weeks of sorrowing became months of pensive torment. Aleksandr's depression dangerously worsened. Any happiness pierced him with bitter memories of the angel out of his grasps; all good in the world became a good that Irina would not feel, decided Aleksandr. A suicidal decision led him to Petrov Kündinger, a drug dealer in Kamsko-Votkimsk, a small industrial town near Moscow. Petrov lived in the district where rape and prostitution were as common as bubblegum on the sidewalk. Aleksandr was unshaken by the surroundings while he purchased the codeine with which he planned to take his life.
-
Fine wrinkles webbed the icy, sullen face of Aleksandr. His blonde hair had begun to gray at the early age of 35. He had been so much older than his gorgeous bride, but their love had held stronger than the love of any mortal. The loss showed in the weary Russian's silver-blue eyes; he looked as if he'd aged a lifetime in the few months since his wife demised. His chapped lips and chiseled jaw beamed agony in the very expression on his face. His stature at six and a half feet slumped bearing the weight of living life without meaning. His figure seemed hollow, because he had neglected his health with mourning the beautiful Irina. The once handsome and muscular Aleksandr had become a morbid and melancholy soul.
-
Our distraught widower shuffled into the bleak bedroom, he sat on the bed. He had walked these steps many a time before in his mind. Orally consuming the 6 tablespoons of codeine which would certainly be sufficient as a poison, Aleksandr waited in the few minutes of lucidity remaining. The room stayed unchanged from the night of Irina's tragedy. Reaching down, he uncovered her journal from the crevice between the bed and the night stand. Instinctively turning to the last page, as if driven by Irina's angel herself, he found a haunting passage. The paper which was stained with the bloody mucus of perfection's dying lungs read in a scribbled and shaky hand:
"To my dearest husband,
Death seeks me. My body has given up all protest, at last. For me, my final wish and only will is for you to continue living. Live in happiness, because it's your duty to experience what I'll miss. Be happy for me, darling. I love you... Remember me, remember to---"
There at the end the pen had fallen away from the paper.

Irina only desired Aleksandr to be happy. Oh, what bitter self-hatred encompassed him! The widower had sinfully slain his last chance to make his princess happy. He lost his final chance to redeem himself; what pain stabbed through him! Abhorrence for his brutal and selfish suicide accompanied the evasion of hostility in his mind. The world became a whirlwind of rancor until the sweet and deadly venom of the codeine overwhelmed his body. Thanatos returned to claim the second in a pair, neither could survive without the other. They loved each other more than life itself.