Blood And Silence
Alvara
It had been three months since I left my mother’s house, and my belly had grown enough that there was no longer any pretending.
What was once a secret tucked beneath oversized dresses had become a quiet, undeniable truth, round, heavy, and always present.
A life I carried whether I wanted to acknowledge it or not.
The violent morning sickness of the first trimester had eased, but the exhaustion never left. It clung to my bones, settled in my lower back, followed me even into sleep. Some days, lifting myself out of bed felt like a task meant for someone stronger than me.
Eliora had been visiting every week for the past three months, each visit stretching into days.
Whenever she arrived, the house changed.
The walls seemed thinner, the air heavier.
Arguments spilled openly into hallways, loud music pulsed late into the night, and the unmistakable sounds of sex echoed without shame, moans, laughter, the creak of furniture meant to remind me of my place.
I stayed in my room as much as possible.
I learned survival in fragments. Light chores only when the house was quiet.
Memorizing which corridors Adrian favored and which rooms Eliora claimed as hers.
I timed my movements carefully, counting footsteps, listening for laughter or raised voices before stepping out.
Once, while cleaning the upstairs corridor, my foot slipped.
I had caught the railing just in time, my heart slamming violently as my belly tightened painfully.
From that day on, fear followed every step I took.
Mrs. Whitmore had been kind in the small, dangerous ways, bringing my food to me, murmuring gentle reminders to rest, avoiding Adrian’s gaze when she helped me.
I cooked simple meals for myself when cravings hit, drank ginger tea for the heartburn, and took short walks in the garden only when Eliora wasn’t around.
Despite the luxury of the house, I felt imprisoned.
For three months, Eliora mocked me openly.
She used Adrian’s cruelty like armor, leaning into it, feeding off it.
She shoved past me in narrow hallways and whispered insults under her breath.
Drinks “accidentally” spilled down my clothes.
Doors slammed inches from my face. Always subtle. Always deliberate.
Adrian grew colder with each passing week. His sneers sharpened, his voice harsher whenever his eyes drifted to my stomach. At night, I journaled in secret, my fears, the steady growth of my belly, prayers whispered through tears that my child would survive this house.
By my fifth month, my body no longer felt like mine.
Stretch marks bloomed across my abdomen and hips.
My feet swelled painfully . Braxton Hicks contractions tightened my belly without warning, stealing my breath.
My back throbbed constantly, heartburn burned my chest, and even walking left me short of breath.
Emotionally, it was worse.
I lived with irritability, anxiety, and tears pressed down until my chest ached.
I learned to school my expression whenever Adrian or Eliora were near. To be invisible. Quiet. Alive.
That morning, I rose slowly from bed. My lower back screamed in protest, my belly tightening hard enough to make me gasp. The room spun, and I clutched the bedpost until it steadied.
“For you,” I whispered to my stomach. “I can do this for you.”
After bathing carefully, I slipped into my favorite maternity gown, the soft one that didn’t itch, and waited for Mrs. Whitmore to bring my food.
She didn’t come.
Minutes passed. Then more.
Against my better judgment, I forced myself downstairs. The doctor had insisted on light movement, though climbing stairs had become a battle. I held the railing, descending one step at a time.
Voices drifted from the living room.
Adrian and Eliora.
She was perched on his lap, her arms looped around his neck, laughing as he kissed her jaw. My chest tightened. I hadn’t known she was visiting, I had forgotten it was the weekend.
I kept my eyes down and headed for the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” Eliora called sweetly
.
I didn’t respond.
“A human being spoke to you,” Adrian snapped, standing abruptly. “Are you deaf?”
I turned slowly. “I respond to human beings,” I said calmly. “And I don’t recall one speaking to me.”
Eliora clapped mockingly. “Oh, Adrian, she still thinks she has a spine.”
He laughed sharply, then turned on Mrs. Whitmore as she entered the room, his voice turning icy. He warned her, stripped her of the little kindness she had shown me, and reminded her of her place.
“I am the lawful wife of this house,” I said quietly, meeting Mrs. Whitmore’s eyes. “Never forget that.”
Adrian scoffed, then his restraint snapped.
“You think that bastard inside you gives you power?” he shouted. “You trapped me with that thing!”
My hand went to my belly instinctively.
“The worst you can do is slap me,” I said evenly. “And it won’t be the first. But this will outlive your cruelty.”
The slap came fast.
Pain exploded across my face, white and blinding. I staggered but didn’t fall. Tears spilled before I could stop them. I wiped them away and met his gaze.
“Remember this day, Adrian Vale,” I said softly. “You will regret it.”
I turned and went upstairs, my body shaking violently.
I needed to leave. For my child. For myself.
Behind me, voices rose again.
“She’s getting bold,” Eliora sneered. “Because of the baby.”
“There will be no baby,” Adrian said coldly. “She’s leaving as soon as she gives birth ”
Eliora’s laughter was sharp. “You better make sure of that. Because I won’t raise another woman’s child in my man’s house.”
The door to my room opened without warning.
Eliora stepped inside.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, standing.
“I can be anywhere I want,” she replied coolly, her eyes roaming my body with disgust. “You’ve gained weight.”
“Leave,” I said.
She circled me slowly. “You think Adrian will ever choose you? Look at you. Swollen. Weak.”
“Stop pushing me,” I warned as she crowded my space. “You will regret it.”
She laughed softly. “You’re already falling apart.”
“Get out.” I said opening the door
Instead, she stepped closer.
“Careful,” she whispered, her shoulder brushing mine. “You wouldn’t want to fall.”
My balance shifted.
The push was sudden.
Not violent.
Not dramatic.
Just enough.
The world tipped.
I remember the sound, my body striking steps, the sharp scream torn from my throat. Pain consumed me as I crashed downward, my body twisting, my back screaming, my head slamming hard.
I landed at the bottom in a heap.
“No… no…” I whispered, my hand flying to my stomach.
Something was wrong.
Too tight.
Too still.
Warmth spread beneath me. The metallic smell reached me before I looked.
Blood.
I pressed my palm to my belly, sobbing. Begging. Apologizing.
“I’m sorry… please… stay…”
At the top of the stairs, Eliora stood frozen, pale. She didn’t scream. She didn’t move.
She stepped back.
And disappeared.
Pain ripped through me again, stronger, crueler. Darkness crept into my vision as voices filled the house, Mrs. Whitmore’s scream, footsteps pounding.
Hands lifted me. The ceiling spun.
The last sob that escaped me wasn’t for myself,but for the life I no longer knew if I was carrying.
Then everything went dark.