Peanut Butter Fingerprints

Chapter 6

"When a Heart Breaks"

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"There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds."

-Laurell K. Hamilton

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Maxon

For the fifth night in a row, I listened to the queen silently sob into her satin pillow.

I flipped onto my side and watched as America's shoulders trembled with every choked back sob. I had never seen her so broken in all of my life; I didn't know she could ever break like this. I never dreamed anything could shatter her. But I realized then, as she sobbed for our lost child, that my America weeps the hardest for the ones she loves and for the ones she loses.

It was true that she was still the polished stone she had become at the end of The Selection. Her rough edges had been smoothed out even more with time, and before long, she shined like the most beautiful jewel. Her fiery spirit was once something I feared would be uncontrollable but she has used it to her advantage, using that fire to keep her going and her spirit blazing with passion. But now, as my bride lay there and weep, I did not see such a fire in her anymore. I saw her as a wilting flower that had been beaten down by harsh conditions.

America had not been like the lady I proposed to five years ago. She no longer hummed or sang as she walked places with me, like the garden. I had scarcely heard her play the violin. Never did her smile widen or she race and throw her arms around me when I came home from a business trip or even just to bed at night. America acknowledged me with a short nod and went back to whatever she was doing. She had slowly become stressed and overwhelmed by it all. 

America had mentioned to me when she began The Selection that this was a cage, this castle. But I always feared that she meant more than the castle itself, but the title, the pressure, the cameras, the stress. 

Oh, why did I have to be King? Why couldn't I be Maxon Schreave, photographer from caste five whom was in love with America Singer? Why couldn't I love her as myself?

"America," I whispered into the twilight. 

It was the first time I had said her name in five days, ever since we learned that our baby was most likely not alive. When America's little flame burst into a wildfire and tore everything into two, including me. The cuts and bruises from then still stung and ached but not as much as the pain in my heart.

For a moment, her shoulders ceased shaking but the muffled sobs continued every so often. And then she spoke to me, for the first time in five days. She actually did more than ask me to pass the orange juice or to turn off the bathroom light when I went to bed.

"I am sorry if I woke you up, Maxon," America replied in a clear and rehearsed voice.

My heart clenched. Calling her name over and over was obviously not going to work. I decided to try another tactic: opening my heart to her fully. This could either work very well or end in disaster. But what else was I to do to bring her back to me? I couldn't do it then, though, not when I was half delirious from sleep deprivation. In the morning, I promised myself that I would tell her how much I loved her. In the morning, is when I hoped my America would come back to me.

.*.*.*.

I awoke to a sharp, pulsing pain in my head. I could not help the yelp that came from between my gritted teeth. Every thought in my head kept escaping when I'd reach for it. But only one was constantly there as I struggled to find words. Call for America. I tried to say her name, but only another choked cry came out.