Chapter 28 #4
My eyes closed, opening to the feel of a gentle hand brushing the hair from my sweaty face. Woodrow was at my side, his handsome face flushed, confused, and so fucking scared. He mirrored me. His other hand settled on my stomach, his fingers weaving through mine.
“I think I failed. I think. . .” I cried out the words, trailing off in a heartbreaking sob.
“Breathe,” he spoke a silent instruction. One, he still had no idea how to follow. “Breathe. . . you haven’t failed.”
“It doesn’t feel right. . . I couldn’t protect—”
“Shhh. . . none of this is your fault. Breathe. . .”
I did, slow and steady, in and out, and he copied my actions, choking every time his breath caught.
“It's too soon. There's something wrong. It doesn’t feel right!”
My words—things he already knew, by looking at the blood coming from my body and listening to my already spoken words—sent him into a panic. He twitched, and with his eyes blinking rapidly, he left me, and Woody took over again.
“I don't know what to do.” Woody was terrified, his anxiety rivalling the strength of mine.
The twinges continued. The time between the tightening in my stomach decreased between each one. The pressure moving down my body intensified, and I couldn't fight the urge to push.
I followed the instructions my body gave, and I pushed.
My scream ripped through the foundations of the old house.
I took a breath, feeling uncomfortable and stretched, but there was no sign of a baby.
I pushed again. My fingers wandered between my legs, trying to feel how far into this I was, with no one guiding me.
I felt a grip around me that couldn't have belonged to a child. Woodrow was back for the moment I needed him most.
“Go look.” I pushed his arm from my shoulder. “I need help. I'm in too much pain.”
He gave me the quickest kiss, his mouth pressing delicately against my pounding temple.
He kept my hand in his, and I squeezed him through the pain.
I sunk lower to the ground, parting my legs.
My face scrunched, telling of my pain, and Woodrow used his initiative to try and minimize it. He lifted my legs onto his shoulders. His knees, against my thighs, stopped my body from sliding.
I pushed again, trying to read the changing expressions on his face.
I thought of Jesus, and of how I’d abandoned him in the basement, and I appealed for his forgiveness as I prayed he'd do something to keep Ville and Wynter on the other side of the room.
And they stayed away, occupied with each other, and the whispers of love they had for each other.
I didn’t listen to any of it. I only listened to Woodrow and the whispers of love and encouragement he had for me.
I pushed again, the pressure growing.
“I see something. Keep going, Moonlight. You're doing so well.” Woodrow's hand moved up and down my legs, my unshaven hair piloting beneath his fingertips.
I squeezed his hand, unable to respond verbally.
I pushed again, my hand squeezing harder, my teeth clamping down until I felt relief.
The urge to push again didn't come. Our baby was born.
So, so tiny.
So, so still.
The delicate body lay motionless in Woodrow's hand, barely filling it. My blood covered him to his elbow.
Our baby didn't make a noise.
And neither did I, staring down at them, eyes wide with shock.
Woodrow's hand moved in and out of focus as tears clouded my eyes.
His thumb roved over a tiny cheek. His other hand tightened around mine, and I saw pain on his face.
. . a face with an expression that made him appear younger.
He wasn't Woodrow anymore. He was a child, holding his baby, and he was so confused.
He didn't even understand why he was hurting so much.
But I did.
The grief crashed down on me like a tidal wave, dragging me under and flooding my body. I was sure I would die. I wanted to die. And I selfishly wanted to take Woodrow with me, so we could all be together.
I pulled my hand from his, and his bloody palm settled on my leg as I lifted our baby from his other hand.
I placed the tiny body—covered in blood—on my chest. Woody moved to my side and watched my gentle fingers massage where I thought tiny lungs would be, but they weren't strong enough to fight with me and suck in air.
“What do I do?” My eyes were on Wynter, as if she had any motherly wisdom to impart. “Why isn't the baby crying?”
“The baby is dead, Jolie.” Her lack of sympathy reminded me of all the hate I felt for her.
“How can I save—?”
“You can’t,” she cut me off.
A checkered kitchen cloth sat near the sink; it crumpled as Ville clutched it. He walked over; the sound of his boots created the usual feeling of dread and anxiety in the pit of my stomach, reminding me of the emptiness now there. Twinges continued, feeling like mini contractions as he neared.
Woody continued blinking at my side, switching rapidly once more to Woodrow, before immediately switching back. Ville, the only one of us here with training in psychology, didn't even notice this time.
My head rolled into Woody's, settling carefully in the crook of his neck. My hair brushed his ears, but it didn't affect Woody the way it did Woodrow.
“I love you, Woody.” I kissed his throat, letting him know how I felt. I loved him so much, in a way so different to how I loved Woodrow, but still so completely.
He tensed, fearing more damage to the injury he suffered without even knowing how he got it. But before he could even answer me, Ville distracted us both.
“She doesn’t mean it, buddy. She doesn’t love you. Not really. She’s just looking for someone to care for because her baby didn’t make it.”
“He’s a liar, Woody,” I whispered, so low, he probably didn’t hear it.
Ville tossed the cloth at me, covering the small baby in my arms. My heart cracked as I tried to guess the weight—the cloth feeling heavier.
I looked away, keeping my attention on Woody, whose silver eyes hadn't left the little one.
I couldn't move the cloth; I couldn't look and take in features.
I couldn't even glance to see if my child was male or female.
It was too painful.
With the baby covered, Ville's fist invaded my hold, snatching away my child. Wynter came up behind him, her washing-up gloves on as she cut the cord.
“I'll get this wrapped up.” Wynter scooped up something between my legs, hurrying it to a cookware pot.
I squinted to get a better look, and my empty stomach rolled over the realization that it was my placenta, and that was what I felt leaving my body when those mini contractions came.
“For what?” I asked in horror. I shouldn't have fucking asked.
“For dinner. It's good. We did it with Nessie's, too. Can’t waste decent food.” Ville shrugged.
I almost vomited up last night’s dog food. “Are you gonna eat your own grandchild, too?”
“No. That's why we cut the cord, silly. Besides, there's no meat on this tiny thing.” I fumed at Ville, staring up at him with the most intense hate.
He tied up the cloth, making my baby look even smaller within the fabric, and ensuring no more stains would happen in this kitchen. He tossed my baby at Woody, hitting him in the chest.
I screamed at him, livid anger lifting me higher, but not high enough to get up and do anything.
Woody's hands moved quickly, cupping our baby to his chest. Another pained breath shuddered out of him.
“Do me a favor, huh, champ, take that out to the trash. There’s enough rubbish in here.”
“Daddy—”
“Now, my boy.”
Woody didn't look at the baby tucked into his chest. His silver gaze drilled into me, as I pleaded with him not to listen.
But Ville made the decision for him, dragging him to his feet.
The fear of disappointing his father shone in his eyes.
Shadowed his every movement. He put his feet on the ground, the grip of Ville's hand slackened around the scruff of his t-shirt as he shoved him through the kitchen door and out of my view.
“Please, Woody, please! Don't! I'm begging you, don't!” My mourning made the words sound different. I dragged myself across the floor—my body a mop to the mess I’d made—to try to see what he’d do with our child.
The imprint Ville's boot left on my lower spine shut my mouth. He kicked me again, and again it was in the stomach.
I doubled over in pain, vomit shooting from my mouth. My lips trembled as I wiped away the sick with the back of my hand.
Wynter did nothing to comfort me. Staring at me with no sympathy, her small hand landed on her husband's back, her palm creating comforting circles there.
Ville’s finger drew a cross over his heart. “Forgive me,” he requested of the only one he believed had the right to judge him. God.
I lay in the mess of blood, taking my eyes from the couple opposite me, pulling out chairs as they prayed. I rolled in on myself, holding my stomach.
They acted as if this hurt them. Like they felt some kind of remorse. But I knew better than to trust wolves who wore the skins of the sheep they’d killed.
I ignored their clasped hands and closed eyes, keeping mine open, staring at the blood on my legs, clinging to my skin.
More blood continued to leak from my body, and I wondered what it was exactly that kept me alive—probably the devil on the other side of the room, to torture me some more.
Sound became hazed in my ears. My head hurt and I felt sick. My breathing altered, and each breath I took made me somehow feel breathless. My hand rubbed along my stomach, and I soothed beyond the empty bump, in an attempt to placate the baby who wasn't there.
I wasn't ready to face that yet. In my head—my messed-up, imaginative brain—my baby could live forever.
And, if I had my way, I'd live there, too. Because I no longer had any interest in my surroundings.