The Boy with the Whiplash Tattoo

Thirty five

I screwed my eyes shut but sleep refused to come. My stomach growled loudly. I think a part of me was trying to starve the tiny life inside me.
I slipped downstairs.
Mum was snoring gently from the sofa. Dad slept so silently it was hard to tell if he was still alive.
Mum had a bottle of red wine in the fridge. It tasted disgusting but I just felt like I should do something. If I lost the baby maybe Aaron would go back to normal again.
I poured a glass, took a deep breath, downed almost all of it in one go. I topped up the glass, preparing for another.
A warm hand closed over mine.
My heart stopped.
"Mum," I whispered.
Hot breath on my neck sent shivers down my spine.
"It's me," Aaron said softly.
I gasped, and then a smile darted across my face and then just as quickly vanished.
"What are you doing?"
I couldn't look at him.
"I thought you didn't want the baby."
His face was kind. I didn't understand why he wasn't more angry with me.
"That's something for us to talk about and decide together."
Nothing he was saying made me feel better. I just wanted to sink into the floor and never come back.
"But you ran out? Why did you do that if you weren't angry with me for letting this happen?"
"I could never be angry with you."
Well that's a lie.
"I was just taken by surprise," he said.
"Me too." I said with a sad smile.
"Come upstairs."
He gently took my hand. He was so tender, looking at me as if I could break at any second.
I let him lead me, but at the top of the stairs I released his hand and clutched my stomach.
"What's wrong?" under the concern there was a glimmer of hopefulness.
"I'm gonna be sick."
He rushes me into the bathroom, lifts the lid and helps me crouch over the toilet. Twists my hair up and out of my face. Rubs my back.
It almost gives me hope.