With Child And Hate (Pt. 5)

It was too cold in her bed, even curled up in her covers, even with the miniature heater practically inside her cot with her. Maybe it was her sweat, drenching her skin, the slight cool making her feel as if she was freezing to death.

It had been a few days since Amanda had been given the test, although ‘given’ was too generous a word. He’d merely walked in, back from the pharmacy, and tossed it for her to catch, leaving her to confirm it, to realize it to be the truth.

It was a color-based test; even as the clock ticked on without a hint of her period appearing, she kept wishing for that one pink line, that one slim hope she had of not being pregnant, free of a nine month sentence. But no.

Instead, two pink lines. Two lines to signal that, once again, she was back in prison, this time one of her making, no one for her to place blame on other than him. For the days that followed, every time she was sure he couldn’t hear her, she would scream insults at the walls, imagining he was present to listen to her outburst, yet powerless to do anything to her, to carry out the threats he’d promised.

She hadn’t been sleeping well; awake, her head might have been full of thoughts of Hoffman telling her she’d be next if the fetus died, or of what John would say by the time she balled herself up enough to tell him, or of the thing itself, what it would be like to have it grow inside her, squeezing against her organs, demanding more of her... but, however many thoughts she didn’t want drifted through her mind while her eyes were open, it was nothing compared to when they were closed.

“Please, oh god, oh god, don’t do this to me, not now, please-” -cut off by the pain coursing through her body, worse than she thought she could bear, collapsing onto her back, echoes of her screams ringing in her ears, screams she couldn’t remember forming.

He was there, crouching by her side, as she felt it squirm inside her, its tiny, unformed hands stroking her insides as it lashed out against her with uncontrolled brutality. He began to stroke her temple as her cries of pain increased, choking on what little breath she had left from her screams.

“Amanda, you need to give it up to me. Give me my child, now.”

She couldn’t tell him that it wasn’t her decision, that when the thing was tired of hiding, it’d come out of her. As if on cue, it tore at the wall of her womb, ripping a hand through her skin, reaching out into the outside. Through the pain, she could feel him still stroking her forehead with one hand, his other hand helping the thing in widening where her flesh had been split, gripping hold of intestines, tugging strands out of her body to make way for the thing.

“No, Mark, no, please-” she moaned, as it crawled into his arm, his hand supporting its legs, neck by the crook of his forearm and elbow. He shushed her gently, as the thing started to wail, as the air began to cool her torn-apart body, as she gasped for breath, her vision fading, all noises so distant, so far from her...

“It’s okay, Amanda. Now shhh, honey, shhh...”

“It’s alright,” Hoffman murmured, sitting on the edge of her bed, still stroking the sweat from her face as she whimpered and gasped for air, as her eyes snapped open. He sat still as she wrapped her arms around him, clinging to him, her sobs soaked up by his shoulders.

“Oh god, Mark-”

“Shhh... it’s okay. You’re fine, and, from what I can tell, the baby’s fine.” His own arm tentatively stroked her back, as she trembled in fear, tears still rolling down her face from her dream, the one she’d spent moaning, whimpering, asking for him, in reality.

She still inhaled heavily, taking in the soft scent of his cologne, her tears forming a dark, wet patch on his shirt collar, burying her face into him as his body warmed her. She wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, no words between them, merely the feel of each other in their arms, before she broke away, remembering who the bastard was, remembering what he’d done to her.

He stood, stepping toward the exit, Amanda’s eyes burning into him from where she lay in the bed. He paused, turning to meet her glare, a glare that dropped to her arms the longer he stared at her for.

“I’ll be here for you. If you need me, or... I’ll be there. Alright?” Without waiting for her to reply, he turned back, briskly walking out of the room, leaving her to slump back into her pillows, back into a restless slumber.