the last request

I rewrote your story in English, with care to the "mood" of the story. It is written in a romantic, poetic style, which called for a higher register of English. I hope you approve. (Direct thoughts would normally be in italics, which aren't allowed here. And I used poetic license and did not use "correct grammar" for all lines.)

THE STORY:

I awoke without feeling, as if I were someone else. Where was I? I turned my face and remembered. There beside me, sleeping, was the face of innocence. It burned within me to draw close to him. To kiss his lips. To weep in his embrace, and to feel his peace envelope me.

I ran my fingertips over his skin, but there was no sensation. I tried to pull him close to me, but my efforts were in vain. My god. What was happening?

Feeling as if my heart would burst – trying to make sense of it all – I got up from the bed. There before me was Betrayal herself, tearing my soul from me. Who is she! There in the bed – in my bed, in my place – was another. A jealous rage burned in me. I wanted to kill her. I put my hands around her throat. But there was no pressure. I was powerless still.

Panicked and desperate, I tried once more to wake my darling. “I’m here, my love! I’m here and not there, beside you! She is a devil, an imposter!” But he slept on, an innocent angel, unmoved by my impassioned efforts.

All at once, I fled from the house. I ran through the streets, screaming. "Can anyone hear me? Does anyone know that I love him? I love him! But he is with another, and not with me!” No one so much as looked in my direction. They moved on, passing through me as if I were a ghost. A ghost. Am I ... a phantom?

[cont. below]

I had nowhere to go but back – back to the house that had been mine. Ours. And so I went, with bitter tears and wailing.

But it was not our house. I was not his. I was – no one.

I entered the bedroom once more, being pulled under by the flood of unanswered questions. All that kept me from drowning utterly was the hope that my beloved would awaken. Would awaken and recognize me! Would know that it was I who should be in the place beside him, and not she.

Decades passed. A century. More. And then ...

He awoke! He turned toward me. No! He turned toward her and kissed her tenderly. I tried desperately to make that kiss be for me, upon my own lips – to feel his love for me. But I could not. I yearned for him, but I was held motionless, as if in a dream. An unending nightmare. He pulled her closer to him. I wished to gouge my eyes.

As he drew her slowly ever closer, my heart slipped from my body, floating before me. It seemed to accuse me -- my very heart itself! -- as if I had torn it from my lover's heart with vengeance, of my own accord. I reached for it – took it in my hands, for what I knew would be the last time. All hope was shattered.

I dropped it to the floor without mercy, grinding it beneath my heel. The pain!

And the end of pain.

The deed was done. My heart would beat no longer.

Emptied of all, I knew in that moment that the elation of love was naught but cruel preparation for the plunge to despair.

A murderer, I fled, without direction or plan, leaving my lover to his choice. To her. Somehow, I stopped before a grave stone. It was my grave stone. Upon it was etched my name. It bore not my lover’s surname as any longer my own. It bore only my unadorned name – “Zahara”. And thus, I entered in.

Eternal solitude.