5sos Blurb Book #4

194. malum

infertility.

such a sad sad word that only leaded to sadder outcomes.

because how can you find positivity in watery eyes and tugs at the roots of hair and more and more sighs for the same fucking reason-- it's negative again.
how can there be positivity in lacking the ability to have- to do- something that you've wanted and wanted but it still-
it can never fucking happen.

because blind people paint and the deaf play piano but the infertile cannot have kids-
ever.

and how is it easy to know that for others it is easy- you share intimacy and you become pregnant and have a stunning child 10 months later, a symbol of that intimacy and the peace between the two.

there. done. perfection made easy.

they do it with the lack of testing and screening and crying from depression and standing under hot water that burned the skin but nothing, nothing- could burn more than the absence of a child in one's stomach.

because there was something..cold..about the way that nothing was there, that a space made for a piece of pure love was lacking its fucking purpose.

did that mean the love wasn't there? for the baby?

because loving something that wasn't there did not make sense one bit- like loving the art on a blank piece of paper or loving sound of a guitar without strings.

but the love - somehow - it was there.

but the main component was not. could never be.

---

michael could here faint sobs echoing through the walls.

and he doesn't think his heart could've shattered more.

because he held a pregnancy test between his fingers, negative, what a surprise, and this is the second year of attempting and the second year of disappointments.

more than 40 times michael has held calum in his arms as he coated his tshirt and skin with salt-- but this time?
calum didn't let michael hold him; he pushed his arms away and stalked upstairs with a mumble of
this is done. i'm not trying anymore.

he didn't think he'd ever hear calum's voice so broken, especially his eyes, how their usual flames were lapping up the skin around his brown irises and staining it red, like paint, like the fucking color they wanted the nursery.

we have to keep trying, baby. it's-- we just have to have hope and patience and it'll work out--

i'm tired of waiting, i'm tired of hoping, michael. hope is just an excuse for what's never going to happen.

anything can happen.

this isn't a fucking disney film, michael. you can't wave a magic fucking wand and make me pregnant.
his voice had never been so cold. cold and sharp and almost angry. and eyes that pierced michael's eyes and shot flames down his chest and caressed his heart with shards of glass.