Well, I guess this could be called a gift for AzikaRue394, because EnriqueXQueen is her pairing, or it could be called a gift fic for Silent Pandemonium, who is awesome and has expressed a liking for my angsty-er fics. Either way, it's the first thing I've deemed worthy of uploading in a long time. I was angsting yesterday, and I'm only half-awake right now--blame that for this abomination's presence.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own. Don't sue. M'kay? Thanks.
"For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn." ~Ernest Hemingway, when asked what he thought his greatest work was.
For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn
Queen pulled another dusty cardboard box off the shelf in her makeshift storage room--really the only room besides the bathroom in her sliver of an apartment that had a lock on the door. Carrying it out into the cubbyhole that served as her living room, she set it down on the threadbare carpet next to the coffee table and went to grab a kitchen knife to cut the packing tape on the box and the box of tissues in the windowsill that was swiftly running out.
The needed articles in hand, she sunk to the floor next to the box and folded her legs beneath her.
A bitter crackle shivered through the empty, dusty air as the kitchen knife sliced through the packing tape. Shaky fingers laid the knife back on the coffee table and pulled open the flaps on the lid, releasing a slow trickle of pent-up memories, musty and faded with time and avoidence.
On top of the box rested a denim-covered book. Picking it up with careful reverence, Queen brushed a hand over it's front cover and opened it in her lap. On the first page was a photograph, surrounded by ornate, hand-drawn borders she recognized as the work of his best friend, Oliver. A watery smile surfaced briefly, in remembrance of the happy-go-lucky French young man lost to her so many years ago, vanished like everything else. Her attention turned to the photograph itself, a reminiscent tear escaping her eye. It was one of the few "professional" pictures of the two ever taken--besides the multitude of wedding photographs languishing in some other box lost in space. Enrique's arms were wrapped around her shoulders from behind, his boyish grin just beginning to mellow into a mature smile. A small bump had begun to appear beneath the loose-fitting peasant-top, and she glowed with the excitement and anticipation of a mother-to-be.
Her heart skipped a beat or two, choking on the strong memory.
Turning the page, she found a page full of considerations for names. She skimmed the list, one name near the bottom of the page dragging up an unbidden memory.
~Flashback~
"Gabriel's a good name," Queen mused over the remains of breakfast, her fork absently chasing a lone blueberry around the plate.
"Hmm?" Enrique swallowed a forkful of syrup-drenched pancake and said doubtfully, "Gabriel?"
"Or maybe Gabrielle, if it's a girl," she continued, turning in her chair to face the big bay window framing the kitchen table.
"I like Bianca for a girl," her husband offered.
Queen glared at him in mock disapproval. "Really, En? Naming our child after one of your former slutty girlfriends? Now that's just tacky."
"No, not bianca like the girl I dated I don't know how long ago. Biana like the younger sister in The Taming of the Shrew."
She gasped mockingly. "My husband referring to Shakespearean literature? Oh, be still, my beating heart."
"Hey, shut up," he laughed. "That's not fair, and you know it."
~End Flashback~
Pulling a tissue out of the box, she held the crumpled wad in her lap and turned the page again.
Three black, shiny pieces of paper were taped to the page, eache one with an obscure white blob in the center. In big, pink letters at the top, a banner announced, "It's a girl!"
~Flashback~
"Do you wanna know," Queen asked casually, chopping up a tomatoe to add to dinner.
"Know what?"
Queen landed a gentle punch on his arm. "What we're having, idiot!"
"Oh, the appointment was today?"
"Yes! We talked about this last night, remember?"
"Oh... Well?"
Queen thought for a moment. "You know, just because you forgot, I'm not going to tell you."
"What? Come on, Queen, tell me!"
She dumped the pile of diced tomatoes into the frying pan. "If you really want to know, go look on the bed." She laughed as he darted down the hallway to their bedroom, and continued with her dinner preparations.
"A girl!?"
Queen smiled and stirred the contents of the frying pan.
~End Flashback~
The tissue was now sodden and discarded on the coffee table, followed by another, and another.
Queen slowly closed the book, hesitating before laying it reverently on the carpet next to the box. She didn't need to continue flipping through the pages--the rest were blank.
~Flashback~
Hushed voices outside the darkened hospital room nudgged her awake.
"Her fever's just broken, Dr. Randall, it'd be too much of a shock for her right now," a breathy female voice reasoned.
"She deserves to know as soon as possible, Marinne," the voice called Dr. Randall argued, sounding pained to say so.
A sudden coughing fit sqeezed her lungs, drawing the attention of the medical personnel outside.
"Here, honey," the nurse, a wispy woman in her early fifties, cooed, pressing a glass of water into her hands. "Drink slow, now. That's it."
Dr. Randall hovered by the door, unsure if he was needed at the present moment.
"What happened? Why am I--"
"Shhh. You were very sick for a time there. Don't worry, you're going to be just fine now."
Queen pressed a worried hand to her abdomen. "And Bianca? Is she going to be okay?"
Marinne looked uncertainly at the doctor. He mouthed 'the baby' when Queen looked away for a few seconds. She cooed understandingly and patted her on the cheek in what was supposed to be a comforting gesture. "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry."
~End Flashback~
Enrique had been away on business, and she hadn't had the strength or the courage to face him--she'd taped a note to their bedroom door, gathered her things, and left as quietly as a miscarriage would allow. Two years later, the wound still stung.
Peeking in the box, she pulled out a pair of baby shoes--expensive satin ballet flats shrunk to a delicate miniature. Tears pricked her eyes as she got up and walked to her computer in the kitchen. Sitting down, she opened the web browser and reluctantly typed in an address.
~*~*~
Several days later, in an apartment halfway across the world, a man named Enrique was staring, dumbstruck, at a picture of blue satin baby shoes and a header that proclaimed without fanfare: "For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn."
Don't ask. It's really not worth it.
Please review.