Ready Or Not

More Than News

The Pumpkin King paced the ground level of Finklestein Manor. His head was in a whirl, having to hold it in his hands to keep from toppling over.

Jack Skellington could barely believe it, let alone begin to comprehend. After so many excruciatingly long-drawn-out months of extensive anticipation, this was it. This was finally it.

Between broad strides, he frequently glanced up the spiralling ramp to where Sally's old bedchambers were, and exactly where his wife settled at this precise moment. On the verge of giving birth to the newest member of the Skellington family, their very first child and the supposed heir to Halloween's throne.

But it didn't help in alleviating the rising stress that she was enduring intense pain the last he saw of her. Who knows how much it had probably worsened by now...?

He drags his attention back to the ground and holds his arms behind his back, treading over nuts and bolts mounded across the metallic foundation. With his troublesome focus wavering and worrisome thoughts ravaging his conscience, time felt never-ending.

Why can't I be up there? I'm at least half responsible for this child, aren't I?

The man sighed, continuing to bite the stitch marks lining his mouth — a habit he wasn't entirely sure where he picked up, but hardly cared to muse over right now. It all just seemed to be happening so quickly and he had to try distracting himself. Thinking about the events leading up to where fate had brought them tonight...

And he managed a small smile for maybe the first time that night.

...

Many months prior, Jack sat stiffly in his personalized seat inside their manor's lounge room. The red chesterfield armchair with a towering back, more than appropriate to accommodate his enormous height — although it stretched higher than even himself when he stood straight upright. Meanwhile, Sally's chair was the large, plain white wicker one of rotted rattan rightly positioned parallel to his. Both about an appropriate arm's length apart, with a narrow stool table in between to leave bookmarked novellas and cups of tea.

However, her chair was presently left unaccompanied. Leaving himself alone to bask in the quietness of Skellington Manor with only a slumbering Zero at his feet to keep him in some sort of company from the gothic fireplace crackling with heat. A sedative tool currently granting no allay for the skeleton man who lighted it, however. It too little to overshadow the fact his beloved wife had been feeling in ill health all of today.

Even if Sally tried concealing any evident symptoms of her nausea, it showed especially prevalent during their demanding sessions of holiday planning with the Mayor and a fellow couple of other appointed officials. Come to think of it, she's been feeling this way for over a week — or even possibly longer.

All of this, of course, worrying her husband immensely. Although admittedly, perhaps it was more than reasonable. Afterall, when you're dead, sickness is usually rare or quickly over with. Unless there is something that should be of concern... Nonetheless, even if it were to be deemed as of little importance, Jack couldn't help himself but worry for her behalf.

So much so, once their royal obligations concluded for the day — and after much persuasion on his part — Jack eventually convinced her into seeing Doctor Finklestein for a necessary check-up. And judging the grandfather clock ticking nearby, Sally has been gone for nearly an hour or so.

Perhaps there really is something wrong with her?

Jack had to force himself to stay put and not impetuously bolt to Finklestein's Laboratory when that trepidation became a plausible possibility. Instead, his leg was bouncing, nerves almost vibrating and dark eye sockets rarely blinking — as if he was stumped into a sporadic trance. But the moment that doorknob jiggled, Jack was instantly brought out of his daze and reclined forward off of the chair's cushioned back in a burning expectancy. The discernible sound of the front door creaking open making him lean farther as he watches the entrance to the lounge room like a starving vulture in anticipation for his wife to come through and make her all awaited appearance.