I fling the front door open, hurrying through it to escape the swarm of feelings chasing me out of the house. I hasten the pace, hoping I can outrun them, lose them in a web of side-streets and intricate turns. When my feet can walk no more, they take me to a bar. I order a whiskey, ask the barman to leave out the bottle. I can drink now.
I woke up this morning and for a few moments all was fine, every feeling as it should be. I had shuffled past the bathroom, eyes still full of sleep. The door was wedged open - an invitation for the heat to escape. I dropped a hand on the handle ready to close it. Inside, the ripped shower curtain slumped over the side of the bath, metallic rings scattered on the floor. I had gripped the handle my knuckles turning white as I remembered.
I had balanced on the edge of the tub, careful not to sit on the curtain. I stroked the fabric, the memories of yesterday stitched all over the shiny plastic - the sharp, stabbing pain, the weight of my leaning body pulling it from its hooks, the shrill in my voice, calling for Dan. Tears crashed on its surface with a tap, slow at first, then quicker. Rows of one-eyed flamingos stared at me under the splatter of tears as I shivered at the memories of the cold gel, the paddle pressing on my skin, the holding my breath, the mumbles of sympathy wrapped in a "I'm so sorry".
I stare down at my drink, and the glass stays full, the expanse of emptiness inside too vast to flood.
I go home when the streetlights come on - beacons showing me the way home. His car is in the driveway. He's somewhere inside, and I don't want to go in. He means well, but I can't take it. We will cup my hands in his, his eyes looking for mine. They will be filled with a quiet despair mixed with a need to comfort me. His love will crush me.
I open the front door a crack, the low thud of the fridge closing before the hissing of a can, confirming he's in the kitchen. I slip in unnoticed, making it halfway through the hallway before I stop. He's forgotten to close the bathroom door again. The curtain's gone. I couldn't bear to look at it, now I hate him for taking it away. The evidence, it really happened to me even for the briefest of time, has been discarded. Tears are back, pooling at the edge of my lids, the emptiness deepens - how can someone the size of a peanut leave that big of a void?
"Sarah?"
The quiver in his voice unleashes the flood. He cups my face in his hands. His gaze slices through me, a reminder that I am to blame, that I lost the baby.
I woke up this morning and for a few moments all was fine, every feeling as it should be. I had shuffled past the bathroom, eyes still full of sleep. The door was wedged open - an invitation for the heat to escape. I dropped a hand on the handle ready to close it. Inside, the ripped shower curtain slumped over the side of the bath, metallic rings scattered on the floor. I had gripped the handle my knuckles turning white as I remembered.
I had balanced on the edge of the tub, careful not to sit on the curtain. I stroked the fabric, the memories of yesterday stitched all over the shiny plastic - the sharp, stabbing pain, the weight of my leaning body pulling it from its hooks, the shrill in my voice, calling for Dan. Tears crashed on its surface with a tap, slow at first, then quicker. Rows of one-eyed flamingos stared at me under the splatter of tears as I shivered at the memories of the cold gel, the paddle pressing on my skin, the holding my breath, the mumbles of sympathy wrapped in a "I'm so sorry".
I stare down at my drink, and the glass stays full, the expanse of emptiness inside too vast to flood.
I go home when the streetlights come on - beacons showing me the way home. His car is in the driveway. He's somewhere inside, and I don't want to go in. He means well, but I can't take it. We will cup my hands in his, his eyes looking for mine. They will be filled with a quiet despair mixed with a need to comfort me. His love will crush me.
I open the front door a crack, the low thud of the fridge closing before the hissing of a can, confirming he's in the kitchen. I slip in unnoticed, making it halfway through the hallway before I stop. He's forgotten to close the bathroom door again. The curtain's gone. I couldn't bear to look at it, now I hate him for taking it away. The evidence, it really happened to me even for the briefest of time, has been discarded. Tears are back, pooling at the edge of my lids, the emptiness deepens - how can someone the size of a peanut leave that big of a void?
"Sarah?"
The quiver in his voice unleashes the flood. He cups my face in his hands. His gaze slices through me, a reminder that I am to blame, that I lost the baby.