Chapter 25 - Aurélie
Before my mind could spiral much further, étienne let out a dramatic yelp from the kitchen.
“What the fuck is this toaster?!” he called out. “I pushed one button and it lit up like a spaceship!”
Emilie burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it; I did too. But mid-laugh, I felt it. The awful, warm confirmation low in my pelvis. Wetness. Blood.
I grimaced, already knowing I’d soaked through another tampon. “I’ll be right back,” I said quickly, excusing myself and slipping down the hallway into my bedroom’s ensuite.
I shut the door quietly behind me, pulled off my leggings, and stared down at the evidence of everything slipping out of me.
I was still bleeding. Still holding my emotions in.
And I didn’t know how much longer I could do it.
I washed up quickly, changed into clean leggings, and took one long, bracing breath before reemerging.
Back in the kitchen, étienne and Emilie were yawning, putting the last of the food into the fridge. The half-eaten cheese and baguette were wrapped in beeswax cloth. The wine corked and left upright near the sink. A look at the oven clock told me it was just past eight.
They had a few hours of driving ahead back to the estate outside Marseille. I didn’t want them to stay, but I didn’t want to be alone.
But I also didn’t have the strength to ask for either.
Emilie gave me a tight hug at the door, murmuring something about bringing more things next time. étienne promised to help with the rest of the furniture once I figured out where I wanted it. I told them I’d come by soon to finish moving my boxes out of my room.
We all pretended that wasn’t a loaded promise.
“Text when you’re ready,” étienne said, squeezing my shoulder.
“We’re proud of you,” Emilie added, her voice softer.
I nodded, smiling faintly. “Drive safe. Thanks for everything.”
I stood on the porch as they climbed into Emilie’s car, headlights flashing on the gravel. I waved once and watched the tail lights disappear down the winding path.
And just like that, I wasn’t strong anymore.
I locked the front door, bolted the deadbolt, and barely made it two steps before the first sob ripped out of me. My hand clutched the doorknob behind me like an anchor as my knees buckled and my throat ripped open around the sound.
I didn’t even make it to the living room.
Just curled on the floor of the entry for a moment, trying to catch my breath through the grief I couldn’t name out loud.
I fucking crawled to the bedroom—palms slapping against the hardwood, body aching in every joint, every muscle trembling from exhaustion and pain.
My abdomen pulsed in deep, twisting waves.
I dragged myself the rest of the way, half crawling, half pulling, with what little strength and dignity I had left toward a room that still smelled like unfamiliar air.
Then I pushed myself up, gripping the edge of the doorframe, and stumbled into the bedroom.
I unpacked my shower bag methodically, setting it on the bathroom shelf.
Toothbrush. My razor. My salve. Body wash.
The shampoo and conditioner in the Dubois signature black bottles.
A fresh towel hanging neatly on the hook by the tiled shower, the soaking tub off to the left and overlooking the backyard.
Each action kept me from completely losing it.
Then I placed an order through the delivery app, with just minutes to spare to receive tonight.
Pads, heating patches, electric blankets, iron supplements, electrolyte drinks, goddamn adult diapers for long stretches of rest, and the medication I knew I’d need to start managing the cramping if it got worse.
I tapped the checkout button and let the screen go dark.
I rifled through my canvas duffel blindly until I felt the familiar shape of the orange-capped bottle tucked inside the interior pocket. Then a second bottle, then a third.
These were my just-in-case pills. Prescribed after the last miscarriage, after the laparoscopic endo surgery, when recovery left me broken in body and mind.
One was zolpidem, a sleeping aid that shut the noise off fast. One was diazepam, for the anxiety spikes and post-op muscle spasms that used to leave me gasping. And the last one was my leftover Vicodin prescription.
I lined them up on the nightstand, the labels catching the soft glow of the bedside lamp as I stepped back to look at them all. Not to take all of them. I wasn’t reckless. But I needed something to stop the spiral before it swallowed me whole.
I hesitated, then twisted open the zolpidem. One pill. Then one diazepam. I left the Vicodin where it was. I’d taken enough of that for the time being.
I knew what each one could buy me, what little mercy they offered.
Zolpidem would give me maybe five hours of sleep before the world came rushing back, if I was lucky.
Diazepam would stretch that calm just a little longer, slowing everything enough that the pain didn’t feel like it was chewing through me.
I’d learned their timelines by heart after the last loss.
How long until the fog came. How long until it thinned again.
It wasn’t oblivion. It was a pause, a goddamn reprieve from the screaming inside my own head.
I dry-swallowed both, chased them with a sip of lukewarm water from a half-empty bottle beside the bed, and set the glass down with shaking fingers.
While I waited for the delivery notification to buzz my phone, I went to the bathroom.
I stripped out of my leggings and underwear, and reached down to tug the tampon free.
It was already half-full despite changing it less than an hour ago.
The sight made my stomach turn. I dropped it into the bin, cranked open the bathroom window, and stepped into the shower, turning the water as hot as I could stand.
Steam filled the air of the large square space, curling around the tiles and fogging the glass doors. I stood there until my skin flushed pink and my feet were pruning. The heat should’ve helped, but it only made me more aware of each cramp.
When I shut off the water, the silence was deafening. For a second—a stupid, foolish, hopeful second—I thought it was over. Until I looked down and saw bright red blood, thinned by the water, running in ribbons down my thighs and pooling at my feet.
“Fuck,” I whispered, but my voice came out small. I reached for a towel, hands shaking, and smeared red across the beige cotton. It soaked through almost instantly. I pressed it between my legs, watching it bloom darker, and felt the urge to cry rise in my throat again.
The doorbell rang.
I froze, then looked toward the bedroom. The sound echoed from the hallway, almost as if it came from another world. I hurriedly wrapped the bloody towel around myself and made my way through the house barefoot, dripping blood and water with every step.
A delivery bag waited on the porch when I opened the door. The driver was already gone. I bent to pick it up, felt the towel slip, and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass bordering the door as I closed it. Sopping hair, blood on my legs, a haunted stranger staring back.
I locked up again and dropped the bags on the counter. I tore through the delivery bags one by one, lining the contents along the counter. I didn’t care that I was leaving bloody handprints on everything. I just needed control over something.
This process was messy. The bathroom was messy. Everything was messy.
But it was fine. I’d clean it up later. After I rested, after the pain stopped clawing at me from the inside.
I grabbed the water, the diapers, the wipes, my diffuser that Emilie had prepared for me, and the bar of dark chocolate I’d tossed in at the last second, then steadied myself against the counter as the meds began to crawl warm and heavy through my bloodstream.
The world mercifully softened at the edges.
I shuffled back to my room, leaving sticky, faint red prints on the doorframe as I went.
Everything was duller, number now. That floaty feeling made it easier to go back to the bathroom, where I stripped the towel away and pulled on one of the overnight diapers.
The sound of it crinkling felt obscene in the silence.
There was nothing more degrading than standing there half-naked, half-alive, wrapped in medical-grade cotton. Humiliation and grief twisted together until I couldn’t tell them apart.
I washed the blood off my thighs, wiped my face, brushed my teeth and hair because that’s what functioning people did. Going through the motions felt easier than breaking down again.
When I was done, I reached for one of Callum’s shirts folded on the box that had the matching dresser to my new bed—gray, soft, smelling faintly of laundry soap and him. I pulled it over my head, the fabric hanging loose past my hips, and let the sleeves swallow my hands.
The meds were working now. My limbs felt heavy, my mind slower. Each task felt like its own sentence with strict punctuation. Refill water bottle. Turn off bathroom lights. Plug my phone in. Put the chocolate bar on the nightstand. Set up the diffuser. Check, check, check, check, and check.
I turned off the lamp and crawled into the bed, sinking into the cool sheets. The ceiling glowed faintly with moonlight, thin silver lines stretching across the plaster like veins.
My body still ached. My chest still hurt. But at least the edges were starting to blur.
I rolled onto my side, pulling the blanket up to my waist, one hand curled against my chest. For a moment, my mind slipped somewhere softer—half-lucid, half-dozing. I missed him. God, I missed him. I wished he were here, that he knew. That he could hold me through this the way only he could.
But I also knew he needed the distance right now, to think, breathe, and figure out what came next. We both did.
I didn’t cry again, not when my body was already bleeding enough for both of us.
The thought barely had time to finish forming before it unraveled into static. My eyelids were too heavy to lift again. The medication was a tide pulling me under, slow and absolute. Between the pills, the blood loss, the pain, the travel, and the heartbreak, it wasn’t sleep so much as surrender.
And as the dark closed in, the last thing I registered was the hollow sound of my own heartbeat. Steady, fragile, and still here.