oneshot book 2.0

🧡Birth🧡

Time for some Soviet's childhood oneshots, starting strong with the day he was born.

.

Olena's POV:

I can't be a mother.

Staring up at the ceiling, I listen mindlessly as the doctors and nurses hurry around me. It's sterile here. It smells awful. Antiseptic floods my nostrils, and I feel as though I'm drowning.

I won't be a good mother; I know that much, atleast. This poor, innocent baby deserves better than me. Why did I have to go through with this pregnancy? My hand falls off the side of the bed, and I tilt my head to the side it fell; my body aching entirely.

The birth was nicer than the stories I've heard. I've been terrified of birth for so long. 'Nice' is a strong word... maybe not the right one, but it was nicer than I expected. Painful, but nice.
Every shuffle of feet through the doorway makes my heart leap. I hope and pray for my family to come and visit me. If not only for the child.

I carried the baby full term because they pressured me to. And yet they still cut me off. All because of the man I had a baby with.
God, I feel bad for this child.
I'm sorry, my love, you deserve a better father and life than what he can give you.

He's hated the baby from day one. That look of disdain when I first told him I was pregnant is forever etched into my mind.
He says it ruined his life. He's got people to oppress and a government to impress.

I flick my eyes to where he sits, his height dwarfing the stiff chair beneath him, glaring back at me. His black, yellow and white face is carved into a scowl. It had been for a while now.
Though, he covered it when a doctor or nurse glanced his way.
He had a reputation to uphold, afterall.

My fingers trace lazy circles on the cotton bedsheets beneath me. People weren't lying when they said hospital beds were uncomfortable, huh?
My nail catches on a small strand of the bedsheet, and I glance down at it. Smiling, I play with it a little - smoothing it down, and twirling it around my fingers.

Though, my attention snaps towards the door as it creaks open.
I hold my breath when I see the swaddled blanket in her arms.

What if I don't like my child? He doesn't deserve to not be loved. I'm not going to love this child in the way he needs. The way he requires. I'm going to fail as a mother.
What if I neglect him? If I don't love him, I won't look after him properly. Oh my god, I'm going to neglect him. And then CPS will get involved and he'll get taken away and I'll never get to see my baby again...

Maybe that's not such a bad thing.
What. That's an awful thing to think. I don't want my baby to be taken away. Why did I think that?
Do I want the baby taken awa--

"Congratulations, Miss Aladau. You've got a healthy, baby boy."

I subconsciously sit up a bit straighter; feeling a small weight placed in my arms. Tilting my head downwards, I brace myself before finally opening my eyes and looking at him.

My brain shortcircuits as I blink, scanning his small features.
.
.
I love him.

I struggle to hold back the tears as I take in his cute face. His nose is so... and his little chubby cheeks are just.
My mouth falls open slightly, and it suddenly goes dry. How did I ever think I would hate this boy?