A/N I apologize in advance for the following story. If birthing difficulties triggers emotions in you as a reader that you do not wish to experience, please pass on this story. I am so, so sorry. Characters are not mine.
Old pipes quivered as gallons of steaming water plunged through them.
The house was wretched by silence.
Kristoff paced the floors, even his thudding footsteps muffled by silence. It saturated every inch of the house, consuming the place with a strength that could not be matched.
Everything ached. Everything screamed.
Everything was silent.
In a corner of the house, in a room with a locked door, there was a crib. It seemed so out of place, in the decrepit old house. Billowing pink drapes of cloth hung across it as a canopy, and soft blankets graced the mattress. Little pillows ran across the edges, each dashed with a snowflake right in the center.
This crib was empty. It would remain empty.
A black hand wrapped itself around Kristoff's throat, and he sat, back pressing hard against the lone, locked door. He felt himself choking, suffocating with disgust and hurt.
He forced himself to close his eyes, to burn out the impossible image of a child, their child, sleeping just a room away.
His baby girl was supposed to be in that crib— that lonely, abandoned, heartless crib. Their baby girl was supposed to be there.
Little Leah. Perfect little Leah.
He knew Anna wasn't to blame for this. Neither of them were, not really. It seemed that Fate had looked down at them and played her hidden hand. That hand had read that, no, this was not the time for the two of them to be having a baby.
No, this is not a time that the two of them should be happy.
But there had been a car seat, ready and waiting, in the car. There were bottles still in the cupboards that he couldn't bear to throw away. There was a soft, pink onesie with 'Daddy's Girl' written across the chest tucked into the dresser in the room that he and Anna shared.
Everything had been ready. Everything had been so, so perfect.
And now it was over. Kristoff's head hit his hands, and a choked sound tore itself from his throat.
It was over.
It was just—over.
XXX
Anna had her head pressed against the tile wall of their shower. The water had long since run cold, and, after a near hour of hiding, she was shivering.
That didn't seem to matter, though. The cold didn't matter.
She was sobbing. She was breaking.
She felt like she was dying.
Her hand was pressed across her overstretched belly, an attempted balm against the terrible pain that still wracked her body. Her fingers clenched and unclenched, nails scraping against red against her skin.
She hated herself. She hated herself so much.
What had she done to deserve this?
Why was it, that after so much trying, so much praying, that they had been given this hope? Kristoff had taken her in his arms and cheered, when she had shown him the test. Positive, beautiful positive. They had celebrated as soon as they knew, tearing through the house and kissing and holding each other close.
Anna had leapt on to the phone to call her sister, and Elsa had been delighted, squealing, so out of character, knowing that she was going to be an aunt.
They had been so happy. They had been delighted, over the moon. Everything had been perfect.
But then, all this.
Just a checkup, the doctor had said. 'You'll get to see her', he said. 'Make sure she's doing alright'.
What a liar. What a dirty, terrible liar.
The rest of the visit had passed in a blur. Anna had collapsed, arms wrapping immediately around her stomach, unwilling to believe anything she was hearing. Kristoff had remained standing, frozen where he was.
The doctor had spoken kindly, she thought. He had told her what was to happen next. She remembered resisting, for a while. She remembered screaming, and nurses, running at the sound.
She remembered a prick in her arm, something to sedate her, and Kristoff's furious roar.
Soft hands wrapped themselves around her stomach, and she shuddered. Kristoff. He was here.
He had been just as broken as she had been, after they had found out. She had to endure the physical pain, of a child being pulled, lifeless, from her body. He, poor man, had been forced to watch.
Somewhere in between, something in both of them had shattered, forever.
Now, in the cold water of the shower, Anna turned and sobbed into her husband's chest, crying and screaming for the child they had lost. His grip around her tightened, and his tears mixed with hers.
The water would run cold, by the time they left the shower.
Neither could bring themselves to care.