Queen of the Night

11

Usually I'd like to think of myself as very calm and collected. I think I'm pretty well composed. However right now I was not. 

Right now I was screaming curses on the phone to someone telling them how I didn't care if they crashed their car on the way here, I needed them here now. I didn't care if when I shouted that he almost scratched his car running that red light. If I could describe how I was feeling, I would say the pain in my stomach was rising, but the main concern would be how fucking pissed I was feeling. My slipper was wet, meaning I couldn't wear the pair. If my slippers were ruined, it was ultimately Mark's fault. It takes two to tango, and if I knew all this was leading up to this moment where I got pee on my slippers, and was going into labor in my kitchen, I think I would have evaluated my choices differently. 

Mark was on his way to pick me and take me to the hospital. He's the first person I called, because I thought he would know what to do for some reason, I mean he's the only other person that really knows I'm even having a baby. Should I have planned this? Yes, but it's hard to make plans when you have to think about everything else going on like how shortly after my son is born I'll rarely ever see him again. 

Mark said he would be over as soon as he could be, and I had faith in his speeding capabilities. I wasn't paying much attention to what he was saying until I heard him say, "Hello? I'm here, if you're really in labor don't you think you should've waited outside for me? Hunter what the hell are you doing? Hello?"

 I rushed outside, and shouted to Wess, "Back soon puppy, don't lick that puddle on the floor, you hear me Weston?" before slamming the door, turning off our call, and hobbling to Mark's car holding my aching stomach. I got in, and before he could say anything I yelled, "DRIVE!" and we were off. The ride there was a blur of pain,  and passing cars. I was barely aware of what was happening, and before I knew it I was in a bed with doctors and nurses shouting. 

After 4 hours of contractions, and 2 hours of my son begrudgingly coming out of my body, I gave birth to as they say, a beautiful baby boy. The room was quiet now, and after they cleaned him up, the nurses delicately placed my son in my tired arms. Mark was sitting beside me now, very still. His hand was bandaged and on a split. After a little over 10 minutes of holding my hand, I started getting very mad, and squeezed his hand so hard I broke his wrist, and two fingers. he didn't stop holding my hand though, and I was surprised about that. He had left when they took the baby to get bandaged. Now he was sitting, quiet, and observing. It was later in the evening by now. The sun would be setting soon.

"What should we name him?" I whispered to Mark, as the baby fussed quietly in my arms. 

"I don't know, I never really thought about it," he replied just as quiet.

"How about Damon?" I said thinking of my brother.

"No, that's too dark, I don't like it." Mark said.

"Oh so now you have an opinion," I mocked him.

"How about Anthony?" Mark said ignoring me.

"No it's too long," I said.

"Then we could call him Tony," Mark suggested.

I made a face, "My son will never be a Tony."

"Not a fan of 'West Side Story' then?" he said.

"You're not helping Marcus. Damon is my older brother's name, I like it." I said looking at him.

"Well Anthony was my father's name. How about your dad then? We could just call him Lucifer, or maybe Satan, such a nice name don't you think? Or is your dad's name just plain Death? Does he even have a name?"