A/N: I was reading some Anne Sexton the other day, and something came to mind. The idea is from her poem "The Abortion" but I want to clarify that the story is not about an abortion. It's pretty straightforward, but just in case there was any confusion. The subject matter may be a bit unpleasant for some, so read at your own discretion I guess? I hope you like. And if you don't, be happy I'm poor and will have no money from this.
Somebody who should have been born is gone
the grass as bristly and stout as chives
and me wondering when the ground would break
and me wondering how anything fragile survives
-Anne Sexton
She thinks it's her fault. He can see it when he looks at her, when he watches her and she thinks he's not there. The date marks the fifth year.
An unborn child lingers in the walls of the house. There is a reminder in every corner, and however many times he tries to reduce the memory, she makes sure it remains constant.
He steps into the room behind her, quietly enough so that she doesn't hear him. Her fingers trace the blanket hanging over the edge of the crib. She glances inside it, searching for a face that isn't.
Sometimes she thinks she can see it. She imagines his eyes, her hair, his sarcasm, her manners and all the traits that don't exist.
He stands behind her and imagines unread books and unshared stories, laughter that will always be absent.
"Rory, we have to go. Your mom's waiting," he says softly, approaching her.
As his hands come to rest against her shoulders, she moves away from him, clutching the object in her palm closer to her chest.
He tries to pry it from her fingers. The sole picture, black and white and grainy, a small bump no bigger than his thumb. But it's there and it serves as proof, proof that something beautiful is dead.
If he forces himself to think, he can remember the beginning. He can remember her face, glowing and scared all the same. There was excitement and anxiousness and some panic mixed in for good measure, but it was real.
It was life.
His life, breathing into hers and creating something that was more.
She had kissed his mouth and cemented his future as a father, along with a happiness he hadn't been prepared for.
He remembers learning about the complications. Her hand squeezing his fearfully, blue eyes wide with an innocence he doesn't think he's seen since then.
And he knows he promised her things he had no business promising, security and confidence that it would all turn out as it should have.
It hasn't.
The complications came too early for him to be comfortable with.
But what it is, what he can't escape is a solitary vision.
She is bleeding on the bathroom floor, crying and screaming and he can't move. He can't move until he's in the hospital, and only when he learns that the baby is dead can he feel his heart beat again.
Somehow that seems strange.
He manages to take the picture from her, and sighs in relief before flinching at her protests.
"Where's my baby? Jess! Where's my baby, you killed my baby, where is she?" she demands, pawing blindly at his arms and his chest.
"Rory, calm down. Calm down."
"No! Where's my baby, what did you do to my baby?"
"The baby's gone, Rory. It's gone," he says, and five years later he still can't convince himself.
"It's not! It's not gone, you killed her! You took her away, you took her away! Where is she?"
He pins her arms against her sides and pulls her closer. She struggles against him briefly, still screaming, before going limp in his embrace.
They slide down to the floor in a broken resignation. He whispers things he doesn't believe. She cries and takes in his words, because his lies are the only comfort she knows.
His eyes travel over the room. Over the irrefutable presence of a child.
He kisses her hair and thinks of a bleeding baby.
Beautiful and dead.