Inheritance.

He reaches out for the tinkling mobile, gurgling and giggling softly – peaceful at play. I can hear the sound from here. My dear, sweet boy with the golden curls and sky blue eyes, just like his father. I stand frozen in the bathroom, close my eyes and will the moment to stop, to freeze, to suspend itself in space and time for another year, another hour, another second – any amount of time will do. Any amount to delay the inevitable. Because I have felt this sickness before. I know what it means.

I open my eyes again and cast them down. Exactly as I'd thought; exactly as I'd feared. Two blue lines, parallel, to my doom. Even the sound of my darling boy's laughter cannot dispel the ice cold dread that has driven itself through my heart. The first ordeal was trial enough. Liam is not yet three months. I love the very bones of my boy but I cannot have another. I can't. My mind twists and turns and, like a startled bird, takes frantic flight in a dozen different directions. All of them lead to the same conclusion.

How shall I be rid of it?

Of course, I suspect the answer before my love surprises me by walking into the room. Before he sees the test in my bewildered hand. Before his face lights up and he lifts me up and he smiles the smile that shines brighter than the sun itself. It is the smile I fell in love with. It is the smile that stole me away from my misery in France. It is the smile that seals both of our fates. I will not be rid of it. This mischance will live and grow and come into the world, even if it kills me.

Days pass into weeks and then months. There are days when I cannot eat for nausea. There are nights when I do not sleep.

William's family come with flowers and gifts and congratulations again. So soon, they say, we hardly expected after the last! But… this is a blessing. A gift. They tell me I am very lucky to be loved so. My precious boy is fascinated with my swollen stomach, and William delights in cooing at it even as the thing within writhes and kicks and pains me so.

My dreams become more bizarre; they are too vivid and the colours are all wrong. I dream of melting swans and faceless ballet dancers and the horizon at sunset turned upside down. I dream of waterfalls that rush skyward and songs sang in the wrong key. I dream of tides that rush inland and do not stop; before long, all the world is a vast, black ocean. I dream that I am young again and my mother braids my hair; she pulls too tightly, always.

On better days, I sit at the piano and hope to play and calm my nerves but though I try for hours, I cannot bring it to tune.

The doctors tell us that it will be a girl and this is the worst news of all. Daughters are trouble, this I know because my mother told me so. But William is overjoyed at the news of our perfect pair. He has already ordered the decoration of its bedroom and commissioned the crib. It is to have flowers carved into the wooden railings... so delicate and so beautiful a prison. I do not think he knows that I am the prisoner, and he's so happy about it all that I haven't the heart to tell him.

My little Liam can crawl now. Such a clever boy. He plays at my feet while William brushes my hair and speaks to me of names. I smile and nod and pretend to listen. Inside, I scream but he does not hear because I will not let him. I am so good at holding it in. I look at my reflection in the mirror and take pride in the fact that my serene face betrays nothing.

In the night, I am woken by a pain that has me convinced I have been ripped apart and turned inside out. The ambulance arrives and I am forced to leave my precious boy in the hands of the house staff. I cannot bear to be parted from him. I worry that he will cry to see me gone. He is a tender thing, and so unlike me.

Betrayed by my narrow hips, I am once again cut open. They wrench the child from my bleeding wound. They sew me up again like I am simply ragdoll to be so easily mended. At first, the baby makes no sound or cry and I plead a silent, black hope that it remains that way. A happy tragedy. A mournful blessing. But soon it begins to wail and bleat and it continues on forever. They press the screaming infant into my unwilling arms and as soon as I am able I give it up to William instead. He is captivated by it, speechless. He weeps as though he looks into the face of God himself. I am grateful that his joy blinds him to my indifference.

My husband takes my silence for compliance. Her name is Rachel, now. We take her home and I sleep less. She is nothing like Liam, my sweet boy. She is a horrid thing, full of colic, crying always, resting only when William cradles her in his arms. When I hold her, she screams and screams as though I would murder her. Sometimes, it is so loud I fear she will tear her small lungs apart. Sometimes, there are days that I hope she will. Sometimes, I think she knows I hate her, and so she hates me back.

Slowly, the water in the bathtub seems to me a fair escape... it could be an accident. Or else the pillows and the blankets in her cot - it isn't unheard of, for babies to be smothered by them in sleep. The newspapers speak of it, these cot-death tragedies. Nobody would know. But I would know. And I know that I cannot. It would destroy William to lose her, I feel it in my soul.

I fear he loves her more than me, now.

The girl grows. She crawls, and walks, and talks, beating Liam at every milestone. William delights in the sight of her smile and the sound of her laugh. But she is a spiteful thing. I have seen her. If she doesn't get her way, she snatches and spits and hits when she thinks nobody else is watching. She plays the house staff against each other and challenges my authority on every matter. But she will do anything her father asks; his little angel, his little treasure.

Each day, she grows more like me. Her eyes turn dark, her hair darker. She is smart and knows how to be cruel; I have seen her choose to be kind when it suits her. She sees more than she tells. She keeps secrets. She tells lies. If she has any fears at all, she hides them well.

She is running in the garden, playing some game or other with Liam; we all know who the winner will be. Her curls bounce freely in the sunlight, the one and only thing inherited from her father. Everything else she has is mine. She takes after me so completely and I hate her for it.

Sometimes, I hate her more than I have ever hated myself.

A/N: Hey guys, Indie here!

So this is me, uploading on a whim again. You may have heard me mention that I've been working on some 'origin' side-stories (or not, I can't remember if I actually gave this announcement!) for some of my BEGA characters, since I've developed their backstories pretty heavily compared to the rest of the beyblade cast. Expect to see Mystel, Crusher, Hiro and Matilda get a slice of the limelight - as well as Dr K - to name a few.

Anyway, in case you haven't guessed yet, 'Wreckage' will be Rachel's story.

'But what's this?' I hear you ask. 'Rachel's not on the BEGA team!'

Well sirs and madams, you are quite correct. But she is my OC and because I've given myself SO much ground to cover in OTY, there just isn't the time or space or room to delve too deeply into her history and, to be quite honest, OTY just isn't the place for it - it's its own story. So, I'll cover Rachel's here instead for those of you who might be interested and, for the first chapter, I thought I'd take you back to the very beginning.

In regards to this chapter, this is the first time I've written something like this: it's more of a stream-of-consciousness type narrative than an actual story at this point. Subsequent chapters will return to my usual style and, hopefully, will be more interesting. However, if Rachel doesn't interest you then stop right here, you're not obliged to read at all! xD

Now enough waffle from me. As always, let me know what you think, and I'll see you this weekend with an update for Gemini! We'll finally be dropping in on Tala's side of things. :3

~ Indie x