Lost in madness

35

Dabe

I stood before the full-length mirror, my eyes fixed on the gentle swell of my belly. My hands hovered over it, not quite touching, as if afraid that contact would make this all too real. I still couldn't quite believe it – there was a life growing inside me, a testament to love and betrayal in equal measure.

The question that had been plaguing me: What am I supposed to do? The very thought made my stomach churn, but then again, so did the idea of raising a child.

I let out a deep sigh, turning away from my reflection. I made my way back to the bedroom. My eyes scanned the room, searching for the phone I'd deliberately turned off.

Finally, I spotted it peeking out from beneath a pile of discarded clothes. With trembling hands, I picked it up, bracing myself as I turned it on. The screen lit up, and immediately a flood of notifications poured in. Missed calls, voicemails, text messages – most of them from Andrew.

My throat tightened as I scrolled through them, catching glimpses of his desperate pleas:

"Dabe, please call me back."
"Where are you? Are you okay?"
"We need to talk."
"I'm worried sick. Just let me know you're safe."

Each message was a knife to my heart. I felt guilty for leaving the way I did. But at that moment, it seemed like the only option.

Even now, weeks later, I couldn't bring myself to respond. What would I say? That I was fine? That I'd made my decision? The truth was, I was far from fine, and the only decision I'd made was to run away from it all.

With a frustrated groan, I tossed the phone onto the bed. I couldn't deal with this right now. The drama, the emotions, the impossible choices – it was all too much. For once, I just wanted a moment of peace, a chance to breathe without feeling like I was drowning in consequences.

Desperate for a distraction, I made my way downstairs to the kitchen. The house – a spacious, modern mansion I'd impulsively rented in my flight from reality – echoed with my footsteps. The silence was oppressive, a constant reminder of my solitude.

I busied myself with preparing dinner, and chopping vegetables with perhaps more force than necessary. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board was oddly soothing, giving me something to focus on beyond the chaos of my thoughts.

As I cooked, I allowed myself to imagine, just for a moment, a different life. One where I wasn't in love with the same man for almost 20 decades, now pregnant.

I imagined a simple meal shared with friends, laughter echoing through the rooms instead of this oppressive silence.

The fantasy was bittersweet, and I pushed it away as I plated my meal. I'd prepared enough for a small family, I realized with a pang. Old habits die hard, I supposed.

I settled at the dining table, the spread before me looking almost comical in its excess. Steaming pasta, a crisp salad, warm bread – all for one. As I picked up my fork, the reality of my situation came crashing down on me once more.

I was alone. Truly, utterly alone.

The silence of the house seemed to mock me now, amplifying the sound of my solitary fork against the plate. No conversation, no shared glances or stolen bites from each other's plates. Just me, my thoughts, and the life growing inside me.

Unbidden, tears began to fall, splashing onto the tablecloth. I made no move to wipe them away, letting them flow freely as weeks of pent-up emotion finally found release.

How had I ended up here?

I pushed my plate away, my appetite gone. The food, once so appetizing, now seemed to mock me with its excess. I stood, making my way to the large windows that overlooked the sprawling backyard.

The sun was setting, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. It was beautiful, peaceful – everything my life wasn't at the moment. As I watched the colors bleed across the sky, I felt a sudden, fierce longing for simplicity. 

But that life was no longer an option. 

I turned back to the room, my eyes falling on my discarded phone on the coffee table. It sat there, innocent and unassuming.

With slow, deliberate steps, I made my way to it. My hand hovered over the device, trembling slightly. 

As if in answer, I felt a slight flutter in my stomach – so faint I might have imagined it. But it was enough. Enough to remind me that I wasn't truly alone.

With a deep breath, I picked up the phone. The screen lit up, Andrew's name at the top of the missed calls list. My finger hovered over it, the urge to hear his voice warring with my instinct for self-preservation.

In the end, I set the phone back down without making the call. I wasn't ready. Not yet. But for the first time since I'd fled, I allowed myself to consider the possibility of facing it all. Of finding a way forward that didn't involve running or hiding.

I made my way back to the dining room, methodically clearing away the barely touched meal. 

Whatever I decided – whether to keep this child, to give it up as Sally had suggested, or to find some other path – it had to be my decision. Not influenced by Sally's threats, but a choice I could live with, one I could explain someday if I needed to.

As I finished cleaning up, the night fell outside, I made my way back upstairs. The bedroom, with its rumpled sheets and discarded clothes, was a reminder of the chaos I'd been living in. With newfound energy, I began to gather my things, putting things in order. It was a small act, insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but it felt like a step in the right direction.