"Until There's Nothing Left of Us"
6
"Why I Have My Grandma's Sad Eyes"
(Sound louder than the bombs.)
(THE OTHER SIDE OF THAT NIGHT.)
Laughing, Selphie stumbled across the kitchen, glass still in hand. It was Squall's discovery – a small corner shop in Fisherman's Horizon making intoxicant drinks from Horizon peaches. They weren't alcoholic at all, more aphrodisiacs if anything, but they tasted sweet and carried that sharp tang of gin, which elated and saddened Selphie at the same time. It also had the benefit of not reacting to any of the Esuna-based pills or Elixir distillates she had been taking.
Of course, for such an unassuming beverage, it packed quite a punch.
After three glasses, Selphie was giddy, horny, ecstatic and wonderfully disoriented. She watched her step nevertheless, shoulder to the wall. She had been showing for a while now, and hyperaware that her stomach had to be accommodated in everything she did. The morning sickness was bad, so was having to recuse herself from her classes. She couldn't do diplomacy because everybody and their mother wanted to congratulate her, or talk about her child, which she found unnerving – the Galbadian president could've been an angel for all she knew, but his wife wanting to get grabby with her stomach had been the last straw.
But nevertheless, in that moment, as she crossed the threshold and into the bathroom, Squall's chuckling still in her ears, Selphie felt that this was the victory they were hoping for. This was it. They were won.
She put the glass on the corner of the sink. She felt flushed. She looked, and saw that she was blushing. Her hair was sticking to her forehead by the roots, bound by sweat. There was a wide, silly grin on her face, mesmerized, as if the sight of herself was enough to make her fall in love again.
I could kiss you, you beautiful bitch.
So she did. She leaned forward and kissed her reflection on the lips.
Who says death is all you're good for? Who says-
Squall had deliberately kept his Horizon peach juice intake to a single glass. He had sampled it when he had bought it, and knew what he'd be in for if he let loose.
The sound, when it blared, was louder than bombs.
"Squall!"
Squall crossed the distance in a flash and a moment later, he was grabbing her by the armpits, slowly lowering her to the ground. Her fingers dug into his jacket's arm, and as they curled into a fist, pulling the fabric. Her other hand grabbed the necklace hanging from his neck, and before Squall could even place the spasms of pain shaking her, could even process what was happening, she screamed.
The sound would haunt him in his dreams for the remainder of his life, shake him from dreams darker than he could dare to remember. Her scream would be ringing in his ears every time he won, every time he succeeded, whispering in its phantom reverberations his every fear, every doubt.
Between sobs, grunts in pain and screaming into his chest, Selphie was shaking like a leaf. Squall, unable to do anything, was holding her, trying to understand what was wrong, what was...
He looked down and saw red on white tiles.
Selphie shifted suddenly, pushing him away. Squall lost whatever balance he had on one knee and landed on his ass. Before his eyes, Selphie, screaming still, began to scrape up the fresh blood with her hands, trying to hold onto every droplet as more was leaking, slowly but surely, between her legs. Leaking out of her, leaving her... leaving them...
"Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it," Selphie was chanting, her voice an oscillating shriek, rising as her trembling hands smeared the blood all over the floor, ", stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop..."
Selphie's eyes show up and found his. In those green orbs he often looked at to find home, he saw nothing but despair. A silent plea: stop this. Help me. Help me, please, help me.
Something snapped in Squall's mind. His hand shot up, palm outward.
"Sleep." He said.
Two hours later, Squall was staring at the wall of the Infirmary's waiting room. There was a clock on the wall, ticking steadily, every tick echoing slightly. He was a ghastly sight – his white Master uniform full of handprints in blood, his face colorless, his eyes dead. Staring at the clock, he couldn't quite remember how he had managed to shut the Garden down, grab Selphie and rush her to the Infirmary. He remembered calling the Faculty dispatch, and then Brea, and the rest of it was a blank.
He stared at his hands. Dried blood made the lines in his palms clearer. He remembered a thousand instances when he had seen this sight, mostly right before washing up. Someone's life coating his hands, a souvenir from what he had taken.
Squall shuddered. Mercifully, the door to the waiting room opened and Dr. Christin walked in, hands in the pockets of her lab coat. She walked across the room and sat in the seat opposite of Squall's.
Squall didn't say anything.
Christin knew Squall Leonhart well enough to know every scar on his body, and the story behind each one. She had shared enough official functions with him to have a basic grasp of who he was. She had seen him in many different conditions: wounded and bleeding, prim and proper, steadfast and official, silent and thus silently desperate for the life of a cadet or recruit.
She couldn't recall a time when she had actually seen him as he was now. Hollow.
"Garden Master, I-"
"Squall." He said, "Please."
Christin nodded.
"And don't bullshit me, please?" Squall said, "Just tell me."
Christin sighed.
"There's no other way to say this... she's lost the child." She said, "Our best guess is that it was para-magical energy. It mutated the womb, not entirely but enough to keep her from carrying to term. She should've been sterile to begin with – mages are. The-"
"I know the statistics, doctor."
"Very well."
A moment's silence.
"What else?" Squall asked.
"We... had to perform a hysterectomy." Christin said, averting her eyes, "It was malignant, the mass, like a tumor, we... didn't want to risk leaving mutated tissue inside her, so we..."
"You removed her womb entirely." Squall said, matter-of-factly.
"Yes."
"What do I need to do?"
Christin froze. How to tell the most powerful man in the world that he was powerless, she didn't know.
"I..." she started, hoping the words would come by themselves. They didn't. The hesitant silence was as heavy as Death itself. Her heart heavy as lead, Christin braced herself and complied with his order when she spoke, and told him the truth: "Sir, there's nothing you can do."
Squall's right eye twitched. Christin caught it. She felt a tingling in her spine as Squall stood up. Christin followed suit.
Squall extended a hand. Confused, Christin glared at him.
"Thank you, doctor." Squall said.
Christin shook his hand.
"Sir, I-I..."
"I want to see her."
"She'll be moved into the recovery room soon."
"I know where it is."
Squall turned and walked away. He disappeared behind the doors Christin had come in through, and she found that her head had gone completely blank.