Taylor and Travis Oneshots

I Didn't Pray?

i've been so busy with school  and work that i haven't had time to write anything, so here's a one shot from my jaylor one shots, originally from tumblr (if anyone knows the og blog let me know so i can credit) warning it's a sad one. cw: child loss and blood

Taylor woke up gasping for air, a searing pain ripping through her lower abdomen. Rubbing her eyes to check the time, she tried to roll over, instinctively wanting to curl up into a tight ball and hide from the pain, but just as she worked up the courage to move, another cramp tore through her stomach. Are they back? she thought to herself, remembering the crippling pain that used to accompany her period as a teenager, before she started touring and learned to prevent the aches. She hadn't felt any pain like this in years - especially not there - and suddenly, she was paralyzed with fear. Shooting upright despite the pain, she slid out of bed, noticing the small blood stain on the white sheets. It wasn't big, by any means, but it was enough to cause concern. I'm not due for another few-- when was the last time? Reaching around blindly for her phone in the tangled sheets, she opened her tracker app, squinting down at it in confusion, but she was in so much pain she couldn't make out anything.

Resigning herself to her fate, and wincing as another particularly violent cramp hit her so badly she had to keel over for a moment to take a breath, she slowly made her way towards the master bathroom, supporting herself along the wall as she went. She wasn't even sure if she had tampons, she thought idly to herself, more concerned with getting whatever pain medication she could get her hands on than anything else at the moment. She couldn't remember them ever being so bad as they were now. She'd always been miserable as a teenager, but she'd at least been able to function. This was an entirely different level. It was an ache that encompassed nearly her entire being, and she had to prop herself up against the bathroom door as she closed it behind her to keep from falling over with the strength of them. It was only then that she caught sight of herself in the mirror, and the large blood stain covering the front of her blue plaid pajama shorts. And suddenly, she remembered.

It was as if the ground had fallen away beneath her feet and she sunk down to the floor as her sleepy haze melted away and the realization of what was happening finally hit her. She picked up her phone, scrolling through her contacts for her ob/gyn's number, but dropped it just as quickly. There wasn't a point anymore, was there? This was already happening. There was nothing she could do to stop it. Not if she'd killed their baby.

Surely it was her fault. If this was happening, it had to have been. Maybe it had been the bite of salmon Travis had offered her a few days ago. The doctor had said seafood was fine in moderation, but what if it hadn't been? Or maybe it had been the run they'd taken the previous evening. Maybe it was her diet. Maybe she'd been taking the wrong vitamins. Maybe her body just couldn't keep up. They'd been trying for so long and this was the first time anything had worked. Over and over she racked her brain for some kind of explanation but only one came to mind every time: this was her fault.

How was she going to tell Travis that she had failed at the one thing both of them wanted more than anything else in the world? He had been so excited when she'd told him that he'd laughed, and then immediately started to cry, their tears mingling together as they kissed. She couldn't hurt him like this -- couldn't let him down like this. No. No, this couldn't be happening. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe she was overreacting. Spotting was a normal thing, right? Spotting happened in many pregnancies; she'd read up on it. That's all this was. She had to keep convincing herself of it.

Stripping her shorts off and stepping out of them, she laid them in the sink, letting the cool water run over the stain and watching as it circled the drain a muddy brown. She scrubbed frantically at the shorts with her hands, as if washing away the evidence would make her reality cease to exist, could turn back the clock so they could start over again. This couldn't be happening. She wouldn't let it happen. Somehow, she had to maintain some kind of control over the situation. She was practically scratching at the fabric now in her desperation, her nails turning to copper as she did, only stopping when she felt a warm, stickiness between her legs, running down her thighs to pool at her feet.