Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 308(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
I decide to crawl through the door, my hands hitting the cold ground as I pull myself out.
I touch between my legs, it’s wet.
I scream, “What’s going on?”
Slate will be here, he won’t be long.
I check back for my phone but can’t see anything. Everything is black. Everything.
“It’s all right, baby, kick. Show mommy your kick.” I move my belly, waiting for her little but powerful kick to my hand. But nothing comes. I move around, trying to feel her. But nothing. “It will be all right. Everything will be all right.”
I hate the dark, always have. But I’m afraid that this moment will make me hate it even more. Sitting in the dark, blood and rain dripping down my face as I rock my belly back and forth.
Somewhere deep down I know, I know that this night will be one I hate for the rest of my life. That tonight, no matter how much I try, I will never forget.
But I won’t put myself in the dark like this again.
And then everything goes black.
“Olympia…” I’m not wet anymore, but I still feel cold. My hands touch my belly, and I go to sit up but searing pain rips through me.
“Where is she?” I ask him.
There are dried tears on his face as he goes to wipe them away. “Olympia…”
“I want to see her. Show me my baby,” I scream.
The nurse enters. She tells me, ever so calmly, that my baby girl didn’t make it, and that I can see her if I want to. I don’t hesitate, nodding my head, and I’m pushed out with Slate behind me, his hand on my shoulder as we’re taken into a room where nothing else sits but a cot. My heartbeat is hard and fast when I stare at her.
I think, right then and there, is where I lost a piece of myself that I know I will never ever get back, no matter what I try. My beautiful baby girl wrapped in my pink blanket lies there ever so peacefully.
“She looks like you,” I tell Slate. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” The tears come down heavy. His hands wrap around my shoulders as he cradles me to him.
He pulls away and wipes my tears. “This isn’t your fault.”
“It is. I killed her… our baby.”
He doesn’t care that I’m in the wheelchair, his arms slide in under my legs, and he lifts me up out of it and carries me back into my room. My tears don’t know when to slow down or when to stop. I’m pretty sure I don’t even want them to stop. They are a reminder of what I’ve lost. Her. A pain that will never ever heal.
When we get back to the room, we pass my father and brother. Both of their heads are down, and neither of them say a word as Slate climbs into bed with me, keeping my head on his chest.
“We’ll get through this,” he says in the most quiet of voices.
I want to tell him we won’t. That I can see how he looks at me differently already, and the way he holds me right now with restraint. This isn’t how Slate holds me, no matter what has happened in the past. He holds me with his love, and that’s not there right now. Maybe he will be as broken as me after this. Maybe, when I wake up, it will be a bad dream, and my belly will be full, and my baby girl will be kicking.
Wishful thinking.
“We have to leave, Olympia, we can’t stay in here any longer. The doctor gave you the all-clear, and we have to go to the funeral tomorrow.”
My breath holds in my chest, and I’m afraid to let it escape. I knew it was tomorrow. They were waiting until I was better to hold the funeral.
But it’s so soon. Why does it have to be so soon?
I can’t deal with it.
I won’t.
Slate kisses me every morning when he walks in, and I sometimes think he’s holding it together for the both of us because I can’t seem to do it. It hurts way too much to try to be strong, when all I want to do is rock myself into a corner and never leave that position. Let the darkness that wants to eat me up consume me and be happy about it.
“Olympia.” My father steps in.
Looking past him to Slate, I see the tiredness in his eyes while his features scream of it. Have I been so lost in my own pain that I forgot his as well? He wanted her as much as I did.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Slate.
He simply nods his head, walks over, and with both hands, grips my head and kisses my forehead. “I know. But it wasn’t your fault. The doctor told us that.”