Author's Note: Another chapter!
Hanna
A miscarriage.
Hanna remained silent the entire way home, the music playing at low volume doing nothing to rouse emotion, any emotion - anger, sadness, denial - she was having none of it. Sitting in the passenger seat, her entire being was still, statuesque.
Outside the window, the weather was sunny and bright, unaware of its defining pathetic fallacy.
As Hanna continued to mindlessly stare at the unfolding landscape, the sunshine fell upon her face, illuminating her azure eyes; those that had lost their usual luster and were now cold and hard, almost dead.
Not understanding, nor affected by, the circumstance, Paisley, in her car seat, chattered to herself: piddling, juvenile things bubbling from her parted rosebud lips.
"Fuck!" Hanna screamed at random, throwing down the wooden spoon she had been using. She had been doing an innocent act - making dinner for her family - when suddenly, she just...snapped.
It came as a surprise to even her, as she stared aghast at the splattered tomato sauce on the floor and her shirt, and promptly burst into tears.
"It's not fair! Not fair! Not fair! Not fair... Not fair..."
Her vociferations became repetitive mumblings as she began to exhaust herself, the copious tears paving way down her cheeks and moistening her skin, as she lay there, on her knees, grieving.
Grieving a loss she never really knew, yet felt connected to just the same.
"To however let this happen to my baby girl: I'm going to kick your ass!" Her threat was blusterous, and she knew this, but still, it had to be said.
It's been a week. One week during which her family - she'd refused to see or talk to her friends during this time, lest she become unhinged - was forced to walk on eggshells around her, talk in hushed whispers and sidelong glances.
For the first few days after the couple received the news, Hanna was in shock, clinically diagnosed on day three of her stark silence. Travis, lovingly devoted Travis, had suggested she visit a grief counselor, and/or therapist. She'd agreed, having no energy to fight it, and her mother booked an appointment with Dr. Sullivan, who said that Hanna could come in right away, that a spot had just opened up.
The doctor had advised, on her first visit and each one after, that Hanna had to let herself feel, and closing herself off from everyone and everything around her wasn't going to accomplish anything. Hanna was skeptical, just as she was all those years ago, but told her that she would try, and the doctor had said that was all she could ask.
Now, five days into her therapy, Hanna was finally, after so much internal battle, letting herself feel, feel a shackling sadness and anger.
She continued to scream, vehemence lacing every word, every syllable. "Fuck you!" she cried, her throat horse and sore. "Fuck you!"
She collapsed to the ground, laying flat on her back, and aggressively heaved, shutting her eyes tight as she bucked forward, spewing the contents of her stomach.
The bilious hue her face adorned made her cheeks, sunken and hallow, appear almost nonexistent. She looked sick, waning, there on the kitchen floor, covered in vomit and sauce.
"I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this." Hanna repeated this over and over, and soon, as she rocked back and forth on her knees, this became an eerie mantra. Oh how she wished it was postpartum depression, meaning she would actually be in possession of her baby to raise.
But no, she was, according to Dr. Sullivan, only going through the five stages of grief: denial, sadness, anger...
"Screw the stages, they're useless, a pitiful excuse to go AWOL." Hanna thought bitterly, miraculously finding the strength to pick herself up off the floor and clean up the mess.
An hour later, Travis and Paisley arrived home - Paisley having just come from a friend's house and Travis from work.
"How are you Hanna?" Travis asked later that night, after they'd put their daughter to bed. "Really."
Hanna sighed, mentally and physically exhausted. She had thought multiple times about telling him what had happened when he was gone, the real reason they'd ended up ordering pizza instead of having the spaghetti and meatballs Hanna was in the midst of preparing.
"I'm," she took a deep, cleansing breath, as instructed by Sullivan when she felt the grief rising, and continued. "Getting better, I think." Travis smiled. "That's good to hear sweetheart," he said, kissing her lightly on top of her head.
"He bought it," she thought, and for that, she was thankful, able to fully exhale. "I'm going to bed." "I'll come with you," he told her, taking her hand and leading her up the stairs.
Author's Note: Poor Hanna! Are she and Travis going to survive this? She's lying to him already... that can't be good...