Title: Guilt
Disclaimer: Would I be writing fan fiction if this were mine?
Summary: A baby. And guilt.
X
I may be who I was given to, but I am still human. The baby kicked again today, on my way down to breakfast. My baby kicks a lot, but it's a show of his strength. I hope he will be a strong baby and a good person. He. An odd way to refer to the baby as, we don't know what the sex is. My husband wants a boy; one does not hear our last name often.
My husband is a little proud when it comes to his family—why not? They are wealthy and live in a large, comfortable manor. But being wealthy is not being free. My husband is sometimes short of things when it comes to comforts of the home—but with this baby, I hope he changes. He is a stubborn man, my husband. He has no real job, but connections with people of name. He is very extraordinary, my husband, not like any other man I'd normally meet. He conducts himself with grace and there is a light in his eyes, a trusting feeling washes over you as you speak with him. Our child will be just like him, I think sometimes, full of grace and charm.
Lying in bed, I daydream of this baby, raising him, brushing her hair, teaching him to walk and her to brush her teeth. Although I can never imagine what my child looks like—they say children are miniature versions of you. But I cannot bear to see a daughter of mine grow up to be like me, with so many secrets and all the bad I've done—this world is unfit for a child of mine!
I am so selfish, I think. I want the very best for my child—who doesn't? But in doing this, I think of how bad the world is and how dark and cold and unforgiving it is. What have I done? I have not been good to the world. It is too late now, to not have my baby. I would be doing it a favor. It is too late to start a garden—my husband would think it shameful for me to work with my hands and disgusting to toil with the earth and sweat.
We are noble people and do not lower ourselves to work.
X
Six of nine months are gone. It feels like yesterday when I started to vomit and grow frustrated over small things. But as each day passes, I feel less and less happy to have this baby—the world frightens me and I frighten myself. The nine months are closing, rapidly, in on me and I feel cornered every morning and pushed to the brink. I cannot handle myself any longer.
The door to the manor opens—my husband is home! I have something to tell him. I settle in my chair—the window is black now—and wait for his footsteps down the corridor and the knock on our door. I clear my voice and cast a look at my bag—it has never been so full.
The bag sits next to the wardrobe, fat and the seam smiles through the cracked leather. The footsteps are louder, clearer now. The knock is imminent. I smile and place my hand on my belly—the baby knows what is coming, he knows what I will say. He kicks in disagreement. The pain is unbearable. The door opens. The pain is unbearable and my smile is dying.
"Welcome home, Tom. I have something to tell you," I say, smiling through the baby's kicking and the feeling the warm flush of blood—is the guilt leaving?
Author's Notes: Well, I hope you liked it. It's the follow-up to the first mother/child story. I might do more, but it depends on schoolwork. I hope I provided enough suspense—I had a hard time leaving clues and generally, the story itself. In your reviews, if you review, gives tips on creating some more suspense. This story felt so much more difficult to write; all the presents behind the tree were hard to reach. I couldn't evoke that sense of simplicity and sinister love like in the first one…maybe the next will be better. Thanks for r/r.