The girl screamed in pain. He never left her side.
She stumbled into the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind her. A gasp left her lips the desperate attempt to regain oxygen into her lungs unfruitful. She swallowed thickly, throat suddenly shrill and dry.
He was here.
It had been months. For one, everything. The other, nothing.
He had held her hand.
He was here, much consideration and tears, he was finally here. The thought burned a hole into her heart, leaving it just as empty as her womb and arms, if it wasn't already barren and sterile. Unfruitful and desolate. Dry and desolate.
An ache set over her body, leaving it pulsing with pain. A wine left her lips, her head finding the blue wall, a limp hand finding the pink piece of art. Her heart raced, thumped harder than ever before.
Hours of pain and blood. Beeps and droans.
She gasped for breath, the room suddenly moist and damp. The hand slipped from the art, a damp trail of four fingers, a thumb and a palm in it's wake. It slid from the wall, long nails scratching against the paint.
He was here.
They were together.
And he was here.
It was so hot in the bathroom. Why was it so hot?
She heard imagined cries of a newborn. Exhausted laughs conjoined together, just like something else had, nine months ago. Bile rose up in her throat. She choked it back. Did he kiss her today, as he did that night? Did he hold her hand and not let go? Did he whisper words to her, press his lips to her sweat laden hair, hold his nose to hers in a way that was so startlingly intimate? Did he want her, now that she had given him something, she herself never could? Did she want him?
Breaths came faster. Faster and faster and faster. Her chest heaved. Her skin moistened. She gasped for breath, the hand coming to her horribly barren womb. Useless. Fruitless and useless. Disposable. Failure.
Drip.
Shakily sniffling, she frowned. Dark eyes looked down at her feet. The bare toes stood on the white floor, uncovered. A crimson circle so perfect in between the pale feet.
She blinked. She blinked again.
Three crimson drops.
Her eyebrows crinkled in confusion, a hand slipping up her bare, pale legs, underneath her skirt. One thick stream of crimson dripped down each thigh. She took in a shaky breath. She sniffled in confusion, inhaling three times.
Two hands came up from her thighs. Both were covered in blood. She panted in shock and fear, looking at them so intently, as if the longer she stared, the blood would somehow evaporate.
The baby cried. It screamed and they laughed. He held them both, she looked up at him, looking so disheveled and lovely that he would love her. Love her and connect with her in a way that he didn't and couldn't with her.
Letting out a mewl, her body sagged to the side, hitting against the wall less than gently. She didn't feel the pain. The bruised agony of her heart and her soul, the mental anguish of that was far worse than any physical bruise. Those would fade with time, but this never would. Never could.
A blood covered hand reached for the door handle. Four streaky lines drew their way to the handle. She gripped it and turned, harder since the blood affected her grip. She tried, again and again. But the handle wouldn't turn. She took in a trifecta of shaky breaths. Nothing happened.
Smiles. Teary smiles. Laughs and eye contact. Pictures and embraced. Complete.
Fear bled into her heart, the horrid feeling of blood slipping down her thighs unsettling her. She tried the knob once more, only to be brought to her knees by a wave of agony, one she'd never known before.
A wail left her lips, her back finding the skirting boards. She took in loud, vocal breaths, her chest heaving with a sickening combination of pain and fear. She hissed and seethed, wrapping an arm around a flat stomach. She squeezed her eyes shut, cringing as another wave wracked her body and mind.
Wails. Wails and screams. Moans and groans. She held his hand and drew strength from their embrace. She inhaled. She exhaled. Contractions of pain went back and forth. All to bring the child into the world.
She opened her eyes, slowly letting them trail down the length of her own body, letting out a wailed cringe as she noticed the growing puddle of her own blood collecting at her thighs. She panted loudly, chest heaving. Her face was suddenly moist, sweat or tears, she couldn't tell. Both, probably.
A scream left her lips, her body contracting in pure agony as another wave of affliction. She wailed and seethed loudly, hitting at the walls and skirting boards, trying to alert somebody who wasn't even there. He wouldn't be there, he couldn't be. Nobody would be. They were all with her and him. Not with her. Never with her.
She let out loud pained, sounds, not words, just sounds. She inhaled and exhaled, heart racing, chest thumping. Her body trembled, more and more covered by the thick, red liquid by the minute. She whimpered, tears sliding down her face as more and more of the floor and her skirt were soaked with her own blood.
"Help me, somebody! Please!" she cried. But nobody would come. All those she knew and loved were with them. And they lived away from everybody.
A happy family. A disgustingly happy family drunk on love. Completely complete. Completely happy. The threevof them. Not including her. Never including her.
Mental pain rivalling the physical burned through her. It had been one night, they weren't together. A mistake. But one that proved her inadequately. The appointments and the procedures and the needles and the blood. The grief and the pain and the surgeries and the recovery all to give him what she did in one night.
"Help me! Please!" she screamed, in vain. Nobody came. Nobody came.
Her side found the floor and soon did her back. An arm extended out, the blood coating all of the previous. The world spun. The room slowed. The heartbeat slowed. The eyes started to close.
"I'm sorry, my love." Mary whispered.
