71. Brynn
H e’s not here, I can feel it. I can feel how empty the bed is, how empty the room is.
I try to roll over, to see through the darkness if the door is open, and then I realise that it has to be shut because otherwise the light from the hallway would be too bright.
My bladder feels full. Too full.
I try to move, to alleviate the pressure, and then bile rushes to my throat.
I practically fall out of the bed, slamming into the carpet. Vomit fills my mouth, and I don’t want to puke. Not here, not in this room.
My legs lay like lead weights, holding my back and I drag myself, an inch at a time until I finally reach the toilet.
It feels like half my guts come up. It burns my throat, and it stings that awful wound in my mouth.
Sting.
Sting like a jellyfish. Sharp and nasty.
My hair is still stuck to my forehead from how hot and sweaty I got from having to drag myself. I want to rinse my mouth with water to get rid of the foul taste, but I don’t have the energy to even try to do it.
I feel exhausted, defeated. And the fact that I’m alone makes my heart thump louder and louder.
Where is Conrad? Has he left me? Has he decided that I’m not worth it after all?
I lay there, curled up on the floor, and that cold marble feels almost comforting. At least it does for a moment, It does until the true reality of my situation hits me.
I’m pregnant.
I don’t know how I know it, but I do.
After everything he did to me. Everything else I’ve gone through, this one fact seems to break the last of my resolve.
I start sobbing, heaving, crying for the person I was, crying for the girl who’s mum she can’t even remember, crying for the unloved child that my family never wanted, that my family despised. And crying for the adult that should have found some sort of happiness, some sort of peace.
Fix me. Fix me.
Everyone always wanted to fix me. Even when I was a child, I was still wrong.
“Fuck you.” I whisper. “Fuck you.”
I know those words are for God, I know that the hate I feel inside me is for him too. Because he did this, he allowed this. He created a world where the Brethren rule, where the men dictate and all of us, all the women are mere pawns, collateral damage, things to be used and not considered actual people.
What kind of a God does that? What kind of world is this?
My hands wrap around my belly. It’s not as flat as it was, but if you didn’t know you probably wouldn’t realise either.
But I do know.
I know it in my heart.
I’m pregnant, and this child in my belly is almost certainly not my husband’s.
I don’t know what to do, I don’t know how to fix this. But there is no fixing this. No answer. If I were braver, I would kill myself, kill us both. Spare us whatever pain is coming.
But I’m a coward. I’ve always been a coward, and that’s half my problem.
At the sound of his footsteps, I freeze. The door creaks open further and he’s there, staring down at me with concern in his eyes.
His nose wrinkles and I know he can smell it, the acrid smell of vomit.
And then he looks down, down to where my hands are, to where my stomach is cradled, and that realisation morphs his features into shock and disgust.
Will he kill it? Will he drag me out now and realise that I truly am worthless to him?
Will he force me to abort it and then put his own in its place? Expect me to give birth and smile, and raise a new child as if my first had never existed?
“Please,” I beg, even though I know it won’t make a difference. That it’s never made a difference. Conrad has always done what he wanted, has always put him and his great family name first.
He might not understand the word coming out of mouth, but he knows what I’m asking, what I’m pleading for.
He crouches down, letting out a low breath. “It’s his, isn’t it?”
I gulp back the reply, knowing whatever words I say will condemn my poor unborn child.
His fists turn into tight balls, and any minute now they’ll become blows.
He’s going to beat me. He’s going to beat this child out of me and force me to miscarry.
He scoops me up, carries me out and I start sobbing as I realise he’s going to take me somewhere, have this child murdered right now, before I can do a thing to stop it.
“Please,” I beg again in my pathetic broken voice. I’d do anything, would promise anything, will give anything.
He lays me down, puts me back into bed and he pulls the covers up around me before he once more wraps me into his arms.
“It’s a bastard.” He says with his face turned up in disgust. “It could be deformed, it could be disabled, it could be…”
“It’s mine.” I say. “My baby. It’s from me too.”
He snarls, slamming his head back against the headboard like he’s actually heard me for the first time.
I don’t know how he can understand my words, how he can take the twisted sounds of my tongueless mouth and turn them into anything comprehensible.
I don’t dare to speak more, I don’t dare to move. I just stare up at him, silently begging for the one thing I know he won’t ever grant me.
“I need an heir.” He states. “My brother needs an heir. Our family needs an heir.”
I nod, scrambling to grab the notepad, scrambling to write a response back to him. “And you’ll have one.” I state, practically shoving it in his face before I scrawl more. “Please, once this child is born, once I can get pregnant again, then I won’t fight you. I’ll give you a child. I’ll give you a son, so many sons…” I know I’m rambling, I know I’m making promises that I can’t possibly guarantee I can keep, but I’ll say anything right now. I’ll do anything.
“This child…” He spits, shaking his head.
“Please.”
He shakes his head more before he pushes me back, pushes me away and then he’s up, crossing the room, slamming the door behind him. That action, that sound, all of it seems to seal my fate.
I crumble, I collapse, I weep into the duvet because I know where he’s gone.
And soon my baby will be too.
Gone.
Gone. Gone. Gone.