Nicholas looked down at the cold, pale body of his wife, not really seeing her. He didn't see the blood that was still flowing; he didn't see the sweat that still covered her brow. All he saw were two clear blue eyes, staring off into nothing. The midwife was drawn back in horror, clutching the baby to her breast. The Doctor had taken off his glasses, and rubbing his eyes, stared despondently at the floor. Behind him, he heard his daughter whimper as she began to regain consciousness.
His Elizabeth was dead. Dead. He couldn't comprehend it; couldn't believe it. The strength in his body seemed to disappear instantly. His legs buckled and he fell to the floor. Realization seeped into his brain and he let out a low moan. He crushed his face against her cold chest, damp with sweat. His shaking hands gripped her clammy ones and the tears finally broke through. The doctor picked up Mary Alice and he and the nurse exited the room quietly, leaving Nicholas alone with his despair.
Several hours later, the Doctor helped a pale and sunken eyed Nicholas back to his room before men came to take the body away. He had not slept, and he would not sleep for another day. His pain consumed him and everything seemed insignificant in comparison. He no longer cared about his daughters. He held no love, nor rage towards either. He no longer cared whether he lived or died. His light and love was gone, and there was nothing left to live for.
Nicholas made his way over to the liquor cabinet, plotting in his head how best to terminate his own life. Hanging? No, too painful. He wanted a quick way out. He looked around frantically, trying to garner some kind of inspiration from his surroundings. When he had about given up, he spotted it.
It was an armoire made of dark cherry wood, a floral patter engraved on the front of each door. But it wasn't the armoire that held the answer for what he so desperately wanted. No, it was what was inside.
For within the antique piece of furniture were four drawers. Inside the top drawer was a hand make oak box. Inside of the box was a bundle of dark red velvet.
And inside the bundle of velvet, there was a handgun.
Nicholas's eyes lit up with the prospect of being with his wife again. Quickly, he crossed over to a small table next to the armoire and poured himself a glass of scotch. He gulped it down quickly, the amber liquid burning his throat. Without another thought, he poured himself a second glass, and then a third, and then a fourth. When he could feel his eyes straining to focus, he stumbled towards the wardrobe. He wrenched open the doors and yanked at the drawer so hard it almost came completely out. He grabbed the oak box and made his way towards the four post bed, breathing hard.
His hands were shaking as he opened up the box and withdrew the velvet bundle. Sitting on the bed, his hands clumsily unfolded the fabric and uncovered the revolver. It had been a gift from Elizabeth, on their first anniversary. He had always suspected she bought it more for her personal safety than for his enjoyment. Nonetheless, the gun was beautiful. The handle was made of ivory, and the barrel was polished silver. The gun was extremely valuable. He hoped that after he was gone, somebody would have the thought to pawn it and use the money for the girls.
Nicholas took a deep breath and slowly laid back across the bed, his feet hanging off the edge of the bed. In his left hand, he held the revolver to his temple, and in his right he clutched Elizabeth's handkerchief. He took a shaky breath, let out a sob and started to count down from ten.
Ten.
His palms started to sweat.
Nine.
His heart pounded.
Eight.
Tears streaked down his face.
Seven.
His whole body started to shake.
Six.
He bit down on his bottom lip to stop the sobs from coming out.
Five.
He wondered vaguely what would happen to the girls.
Four.
His body started to relax, as if it were giving up.
Three.
He said a silent prayer, asking God to forgive him.
Two.
The memory of his wedding was fresh in his mind, Elizabeth's face as detailed as in life.
One.
He smiled in anticipation and began to tense his hand, readying to squeeze the trigger…
And then he dropped the gun, as if it were suddenly hot to touch. Quickly, he sat up, wiping the sweat from his brow. He had heard something, and that something had brought him back. He had heard the shrill cry of the baby.
He gasped aloud as he contemplated what he had been about to do. How could he do that? How could he leave his beautiful baby girl to fend for herself? Elizabeth would have never forgiven him, of that he was sure. He sighed deeply and heaved himself up, still shaking. Yes, he grieved for Elizabeth. He would be grieving for a long time, he knew. But maybe… maybe caring for the baby would help lessen the pain. Yes. He was sure it would. He whispered the baby's name, Cynthia as he knew Elizabeth had wanted to call her, and got to his feet and left the room.
Mary Alice never even crossed his mind.
