" — would've happened regardless of — "
Walls surrounding — blank, empty.
Chatter (noise, whispers, voices) fill room.
Salty.
Taste of salt.
Not eating, not chewing, not drinking — nothing with salt.
" — didn't know about — "
Hand on shoulder, soft, soft hands. Soft skin, Like soft, newborn skin.
Words of comfort. Meaningless, useless, don't want to hear.
A hug.
" — in bed rest for a day or two — "
Two hugs.
" — should be fine after that — "
Not fine. No, not fine at all. Never fine.
Ever.
Still taste salt. Salty water. Tears. Tears from eyes — tired, exhausted eyes.
Won't sleep, can't sleep, not without nightmares.
Purple blocking view. Purple sweater, pale skin. Yukari talking, smiling, being clueless. Now saddening, sympathizing, but still talking.
" — dinner soon and — "
Don't see purple. Kitchen loud — Yukari cooking. Making spaghetti. Spaghetti: noodles, meatballs, sauce. Tomato sauce. Tomatoes. Red. Red like roses, like rosy cheeks.
Alone now. No one in room. Silence. No screaming, no yelling, no crying anymore. No more crying. No crying at night, no soothing, no whispering, never singing lullabies.
Turning head. Room is lit. Bright, bright, lights. Glaring lights. Lights should be off. Off and never on — need darkness. Need to hide. Hide and never return.
Closing mouth; no more salt. No more salt on tongue. Face still wet.
Pillows behind body. Blankets on bed. Pillow and blankets to wipe tears. Wipe away sadness.
Sadness still here.
Sadness needs to go. Go and leave and be forgotten — can't forget. Too painful. Hurts too much. Want to scream, need to scream, can't scream.
Hands shaky. Touch chest — boom, boom, boom. Heart is crying, too. Touch belly: flat, too flat. Supposed to be flat.
Lay down. Wrap around in blankets. Wrap so it's not cold. Should be warm, warm in blankets and booties and mitts and hats.
Curl arms and legs. Tight, tight ball on bed. Ball like basketball, like soccer ball, like baseballs, scattered in the backyard. Backyard — hedges, gardens, ding, ding, ice cream truck, fairy crowns, toy cars, laughter, crying, cheering, knee scrapes and kisses.
Gone.
Didn't happen.
Never real.
Can't sleep.
Turn in bed.
Rotate body.
No one in room, no noise outside room. No one talking. Supposed to be talking. Supposed to be loud.
Door opens, don't turn body. Don't know who's there. Who's there? No one important. Don't move. No need to move. Lie still.
Arms around body. Strong arms. Smooth, strong arms. Arms that carry small bundle. Arms that swing in the middle of the night. Patting on back, waiting for burp.
Arms: comforting arms.
"Hey, doll."
Someone important. Very important. Too important. Can't turn, won't turn — don't want to turn. Can't face him. My fault, my fault. Can't see red eyes — will be ashamed. Ashamed at mistake. Ashamed at result.
Still being held. Warm. Comfort. Shouldn't be comforted. Don't deserved to be comforted.
Let go. Need to let go. Stop holding.
Kisses. Lips on back of head. On neck. Soft lips — should be on top of smaller head.
Salt again. Taste salt, never-ending salt.
Finally turning. Turning and seeing.
Blond hair. Pale skin. Bright eyes. So clear and bright. It could've had clear and bright eyes. Smiling. Not a happy smile. Red eyes. Glassy eyes. Tearing eyes. Sad eyes.
Hands let go of blanket. Clutch. Clutch onto comfort. Hold onto other life in room. The only other life in the room.
Mouth opens. No voice. Need voice. Mouth too dry. Dry mouth, dry like weather in seven months.
Staring. Blinking. Thinking. Finally thinking. Know what to say: I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
Doesn't say it.
Not saying it.
Close eyes. Remember nights. Beautiful night. First night together. Starry night. Same stars two months later. Two months later was last night. Last night — so much blood. Blood and pain and everywhere.
Delicate hands. Hands not used in exploits. Not calloused, not like feet. Hands move hair away from face. Owner of hands smile. Smiling again. Always smiling.
Can't smile.
Voice found. Voice will shatter smile. Shatter like own heart is right now. Million of pieces — hard to put back together. Not sure if it can be put back together.
Close mouth. Swallow. Open up cracked, dry lips again. Have to tell him. Need to tell him. Must tell him.
Look at him. At those eyes. Red like the walls. Gender neutral color. Don't know gender; won't know gender.
Doesn't exist anymore. Tiny little thing, never growing big or growing up. No rosy cheeks, no blond hair, no bright eyes, no whining, laughing, smiling, talking, walking. Not there.
One person in room knows of its short-lived life.
Now two.
"I lost our baby."
Author's Notes:
This was supposed to have been on the lighter side, but something had happened in my family, and I just kind of needed to vent. And this was the best way I could go at it.