Willow
My hands trembled as I packed the final box—the last of my baby’s items that would never be used.
A terrible, low cry erupted from my mouth.
I covered my ragged sob with my hand. The divorce broke me, but when I discovered I was pregnant, the new life gave me hope.
The hope was to continue with a fresh start.
Fate wasn’t through with me. My pain wasn’t enough, so it drove a dagger through my heart. The result was my stillborn son.
No. Fate destroyed me. It left me empty.
Gone were my innocent years of frolicking through my parents' fields.
Gone was the girl who pressed wildflowers between library books, their delicate petals staining the pages with memories.
The nature-loving tomboy who climbed oaks until her fingers bled had been smacked back to earth by the capitalist machine, forced to spend her days staring at screens until her eyes burned.
Those carefree days were never coming back, and I would never be the same again.
I slammed the box shut. That’s when I heard it.
A muffled thud from my abdomen.
Not a cramp.
Not gas.
A knock. Like a tiny fist against a locked door. My breath hitched. Grief was supposed to haunt your mind, not your ovaries. I gripped my belly, which still held a paunch from where my son lay. I waited, but nothing happened.
Perhaps it was phantom pains that came to finish off what was left of me?
Silence.
Then—Another knock. Stronger this time. Deliberate.
My blood turned to ice water. Phantom pains didn't knock twice.
Phantom pains didn't make the candle flame across the room gutter as if in a sudden draft, though every window was sealed shut.
The houseplants on my windowsill, the ones I'd neglected since the funeral, trembled though no breeze touched them.
When the third knock came, I felt it vibrate.
And lower, much lower, something wet and warm trickled down my thigh. But I knew it was the postpartum bleeding. My body didn’t care if I gave birth to a live baby or a dead one. I shoved my sweatpants down to check, but there was no blood or liquid.
I shook my head. I was letting my imagination get the better of me. The box taunted me while my grief-stricken brain traumatised me. With a heavy sigh, I taped the last box, standing up to see the piles of boxes that would go into storage at my parents' farm.
A knock came again, but when I foolishly grabbed my belly. I realised it was my Dad knocking on the front door. He was early, but I didn’t care because I needed a damn hug before we began to haul all these boxes out.
◆◆◆
The city lights vanished as we reached the motorway.
My doctor had given me a sick note, and I didn’t need to worry about logging into my laptop or going into the office with a hollow smile to face the sympathetic or awkward faces.
All the joy and excitement vanished the moment my miscarriage took place.
The journey was uncomfortable and silent after my father had exhausted all the mundane topics.
I felt guilty because I knew he was concerned.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I just need a little time,” I whispered, staring at the road ahead, wishing I knew where my path would lead me.
“You know we are always there for you, Willow. He didn’t deserve you,” my Dad said gruffly.
He never liked my ex, but perhaps he saw how he treated me before I did.
I sighed and leaned over to my Dad, slipping my arm around his.
He kissed my head, and I whispered my love for him.
My mother would be devastated for me, but would show a brave face for me.
This was the perfect time to recoup and recharge with my family.
The only person who wouldn’t treat me like a tragedy was my Grandma.
◆◆◆
The dogs were going crazy when we got out of the car but my dad reprimanded them when they growled at me. I stared at them in confusion. They knew me, but when I tried to pet them they took one sniff of my belly before turning aggressive again.
Dad restrained them in the end while I witnessed their sharp teeth snapping as drool hung down the sides of their crazed mouths. Their paws gouged the soil as he dragged them away by their collars. A flutter in my belly made me pause, but my Dad came back.
“Damn mutts must have smelled a fox or something,” he muttered.
“Leave everything in the car. It’s late. Tell Mum I will see her in the morning,” I said, looking at the house.
The lights were out, and all I needed was sleep.
“Sure, sweetie,” he said, patting my back awkwardly.
When I reached my bedroom, I didn’t sleep. I stayed up going through all my things. My novels, artwork and countless flower pressings. All the things I once loved. It wasn’t until I lay in bed, mentally and physically exhausted, that I allowed myself to think about Luke.
The sadness wouldn’t leave, and I stroked my belly, imagining the knocking and flutter was Luke still safe inside my womb. It was an impossible dream, but it helped soothe me enough to lose myself in sleep.
◆◆◆
Waking up was an ordeal. It was like salt being scrubbed into an open wound with a metal scourer.
There was no flutter in my womb. It lay empty and dormant.
I didn't drink, smoke, and I followed all the doctor's instructions, yet I couldn't prevent myself from feeling guilty.
I opened my eyes and almost screamed when I saw my Grandma sitting on a stool beside my bed.
“Grandma, what’s wrong?”
She was frowning at my belly, but it was more than that. There was fear in her faded green eyes. I was the spitting image of my Grandma, who teased my mum about it all the time. My Dad had the same eye colour as us, but thankfully, I didn't look like him.
“Has anything strange happened since the miscarriage?”
I opened my mouth to lie, but she cut me off.
“Anything at all. It could just be an internal feeling,” she said urgently, squeezing my arm, but her insistent nails dug into me.
I moved to my side, resting my elbow on the bed. No greeting and no warm hug from her, something was wrong.
“Yes, I had a strange feeling in my belly yesterday and—” I said, but paused because I would sound like a lunatic.
Her fingers loosened a touch.
“And?” she urged, narrowing her eyes on me.
“I heard a knocking sound from my belly.”
Her face paled, and she released my arm. She blinked a few times before she spoke.
“My father made a deal with the Fae—one hybrid child taken from each female born into our family. Before I had your father, I had a miscarriage, but it wasn't your grandpa’s child. It was the changeling of a Fae king. The kings take turns and use us for sport,” she said, pulling the covers down and lifting my T-shirt, baring my misshapen belly.
I gasped when she pulled out a knife. “Grandma.”
She lifted her arm over my belly and sliced open the flesh on her forearm. The warm blood dripped on my abdomen, but before it could run down the side, it vanished. My skin absorbed the blood.
“What is this? Fae? Kings and fairies? Why is your blood disappearing?” I rattled off the questions, but thought of all the various tales she used to read to me.
“You have a Fae child growing in your belly. It absorbed my blood because our bloodline is a hybrid mixture of human and Fae. Some of the myths have some accuracy. The Fae are not kind to humans, hybrid or not. I suspected, dear girl, but—” she said but abruptly stopped.
Her eyes shone with tears, but she blinked them away to wrap up her arm with a cloth she had on her lap.
“They don’t just take turns, girl. They bet,” she said as I reached out to help bandage her arm. “Your King won the wager. He had the first claim. Keep all mirrors covered and don't look into water reflections. They could be watching.”
“Grandma—” I began to say, but thought of the blood vanishing from my skin. “Are you saying that I’m pregnant?”
When she nodded, she was staring at my stomach. “It could have happened at any time. They are devious bastards. Your parents don't know about any of this.”
I thought my Grandma had good genes because she looked younger than my mum, despite the grey hair. Then it hit me, a baby. I had a baby inside of me.
“Is there any way I can hide the child from him?” I asked desperately.
She stood up and hugged me.
“Let me brew some herbs. It might work,” she said, turning to leave, but not before I saw her pessimistic frown.
After she left, I could only think about the possible baby in my stomach. I rubbed my belly absentmindedly, but my anger began to grow and fester. Who did these Fae fucker’s think they were? How many humans had they done this to?
Well, fuck the king.
This baby was mine.