The basement is cold,

It's always cold,

So the decomposition of the bodies slows down.

I slowly make an incision,

Into the dead man's body.

It's a new case.

He's discolored.

I haven't found out why.

I hear the doors fly open.

You rush in

And I'm worried.

The look on your face,

It's slightly stressed,

But I also see a smile.

"Maura."

It shouts like a shout in the cold, metallic room of the morgue.

"What is it?"

I stop cutting.

You're more important.

"I'm pregnant."

A moment of breathlessness.

I can't breathe.

I'm trying to,

But my lungs…

They aren't working.

"What?"

I'm trying hard,

Jane,

Not to stutter.

I know how babies are formed.

I'm trying hard not to think of that,

Of him,

Doing those things to you.

The image makes me sick.

Nausea settles into deep into my stomach.

"I know, I can't believe it either."

You sound happy.

I try to be happy, but I can't,

Not past this wall of bile threatening to push through my mouth.

"Are you sure?"

The scalpel in my hand is shaking.

I almost throw it onto the tray before

Slamming my hands on the autopsy table next to the John Doe.

You can't see me shake.

"It was one of those at-home pregnancy tests,

But they're pretty accurate, right?"

Relatively.

"You should still see a doctor to make sure."

I avoid your eyes as I talk.

There's no way I can look into your

Eyes and not burst into

Tears.

It hurts.

Your happiness with the child

Is completely opposite of my

Horrid, soul-eating pain.

This…

Relationship

You have with

Him,

It's real.

It's officially real.

That human child growing inside of you

Proves it.

"You're a doctor."

"I'm not a qualified gynecologist."

No.

I can't bear to test you to see if it's one hundred percent true.

I'm not sure if I can bear watching your stomach get

Bigger and bigger the more the child grows.

It's his.

I'm sorry.

The nausea digs deeper.

I can feel the bile in my throat.

It's threatening to spill out onto the poor man if front of me.

The images of him having sex with you,

The one who is supposed to be mine,

They're still stuck in my mind,

Making my sickness worse.

I can't take it.

"Are we done? I have to finish this autopsy."

I don't mean to snap at you,

I swear,

I just…

I can't.

I can't see you fawn over a baby that a bastard of a man

Gave you.

I hate him.

And I can't transfer that hatred to you

Just because you're carrying his child,

That would be wrong,

Insensitive.

"Yeah, sorry for bothering you."

I don't tell you that it's not you bothering me,

It's that thing inside of you.

I hate Casey,

And, unfortunately,

I hate his child in turn.

I'm sorry,

So sorry.

The heavy doors close behind you,

You take the smell of your perfume with you.

Now it's just the smell of slowly decomposing bodies and chemicals.

I'm usually okay with the rather putrid smell.

But I still can't breathe.

I'm so sorry…