Arsen: a broken love story, стр. 47

I feel like my world has been infected with darkness. I have a loving husband, a beautiful home, financially stable...we even got our second chance at complete happiness with the small miracle growing inside me.

My life is good.

So why do I feel hollow?

Maybe it’s because in the short period of time that he was a part of my life, I discovered something that I didn’t know existed; something I didn’t know I could have. Something I may want?

I don’t know.

Without realizing it, Arsen wrapped me so tightly in a web spun by his sweet deceit that I don’t think I can break free even if I want to.

Green eyes stare back at me in the mirror. My eyes. The eyes of a stranger. I lift a hand to fix my hair, watching my reflection. The waves cascade down my shoulders as I run my fingers through the soft golden mass. Hair in place, I reach for my perfume, tilt my head to the side, and expose my neck for the mist to come. When my finger is on the pump ready to press down, I feel a familiar tug in my lower abdomen.

Oh, no…

Not this time.

Not again.

Numb with fear, my hand automatically drops the perfume, letting it fall on the carpeted floor. I shut my eyes tightly and try to breathe in through my nose and exhale through my mouth as I attempt to calm myself down, but I can’t.

Just breathing hurts.

Fighting to escape the dark cloud of panic settling over me, I wait for the next blow of pain to come and hope that it never does even as despair begins to dig itself within my heart. I wait because there’s nothing else to do.

Again.

It hits me.

Still I watch my reflection and register that my eyes don’t look opaque anymore. They shimmer brightly. They shimmer with tears of sorrow, of grief, of what will never be. But this was never meant to be, was it?

Oh, God.

It was never meant to be.

I feel painful cramps strike me over and over again, each one more intense than the last. Each blow killing me softly. With nothing to do but wait for the inevitable to come, I wrap my arms tightly around my belly. I don’t want to move, afraid that it will make my baby leave my body sooner, faster.

I need to feel her inside me for just a little longer. I need to hold onto that small miracle for just…

Slowly, I lower myself to the floor and lean against the mirror. I close my legs as strongly as possible and pull them up against my chest, not allowing the baby to leave my body just yet. I wrap my legs in the illusionary safe cocoon of my arms as I start to rock back and forth, forbidding the truth sink in. My body is trembling, my hands are shaking, and I’m so afraid.

I’m so fucking afraid.

I can hear a broken voice mumble unintelligible words into my ear as I rock myself like a mad woman.

“Why me?”

“…body broken…”

“…not woman enough…”

I look around the room, realizing I’m alone. All alone.

The crazed voice I keep hearing is mine.

Minutes pass as I fight my body, pleading with it, pleading with God to let me keep my baby this time. Refusing to believe that life would be so cruel to tease me for a fourth time after such a long period of heartbreaking yearning and wishing just to take it all away once more. I continue to sway, oblivious to the world outside, when I feel a pain so intense in my lower back that it snaps me out of my mad daydream. The excruciating pain feels like someone took a heel and dug it in my lower back, twisting it mercilessly. As it passes, I’m left struggling to catch my breath.

When I feel something moist between my legs, I cautiously pull them apart to see bright red blood soaking my tan trousers. Death is spreading through my clothing like a disease.

It looks so red.

So vivid and bright.

It is exactly in this moment, when I’m looking at life slowly seeping out of me, that I willingly jump into the dark abyss of hopelessness. Misery welcomes me with its dead arms, despair freezing my heart.

A crazy urge comes over me. I need to feel the blood on my hands to know it’s real. Reaching to touch myself, I let my fingers linger there until they are covered with my blood. When I pull my hand away and raise it to my eyes so I can take a better look, I rub the red liquid between my fingers and let it stain my skin. My body trembling hard, fingers red, something inside me snaps, cutting loose. I grasp my head between my hands, close my eyes and scream.

Anguish, anger, and sadness are carried in that never-ending shriek.

“Cathy! What’s this? Oh, Cathy!” I hear Ben shout as he comes barreling through the door into our bedroom.

“Oh, Ben…please forgive…” Looking up from the floor, I can see Ben’s horrified expression. “Please forgive me.” My voice is hoarse from crying and having screamed so loud.

“I couldn’t do it…I couldn’t…I couldn’t keep our baby safe.”

I watch as Ben lowers himself to sit down next to me. He lifts me off the floor and sits me on his lap. I can feel the tremors running through his body, the way his arms wrap me so tightly in his warm embrace.

But I feel nothing.

I’m dead on the inside.

I’m cold.

“I couldn’t…”

“Oh, Cathy…please…” his voice is hoarse with pain.

“No. I couldn’t. It’s happening.” Swallowing hard, I continue, “It already has. It’s over.”

Everything is a blur as Ben stands up, holding me in his arms and takes me to the bed. He calls Dr. Pajaree, then lays down next to me, holding me in a powerful embrace and grieving with me for what was never going to be.

“Stay with me, Cathy. Stay with me,” he cries.

Garbage.

I’m throwing everything away. I’m cleaning the attic. I’m getting rid of any item that reminds me of what I will never have, of what Ben and I will never have. Is it a cleanse or a purge?

Who cares.

I lift my hand to wipe the sweat off my forehead as I glance around the nearly empty room. I can almost begin to feel at peace. I don’t ever want to see another baby item in my house. I want all hellish reminders removed once and for all. I want an empty attic.

Just like me.

God made me a woman to punish me. I hate my body. I wish I could erase my memory. Maybe if I couldn’t remember one thing, it would stop hurting so much.

I’ve lost all hope.

Wishing...

My dreams and hopes are shattered.

Like my heart.

My body.

And my soul.

I want to scream.

My body is a ticking bomb.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Everything dies inside me.

Nothing survives.

The placenta didn’t implant properly. The placenta didn’t implant properly. The placenta didn’t implant properly. The placenta didn’t implant properly. The placenta didn’t implant properly. The placenta didn’t implant properly.

It has been three weeks since the incident, since my life completely changed. I don’t care about anything. I don’t care about Ben. I don’t care about work. And I most certainly don’t care what happens to me. My life leads nowhere, so why should I keep trying and trying?

I’m done.

I’ve given up. And it feels so fucking good. Living in an emotionless stupor suits me quite well because it helps me forget and not feel. And I want that. I want to not feel.

Not one thing.

When the last of the baby items is wrapped in a garbage bag, I move to the top of the stairs and throw it down with the others. I watch as the bag lands in a mountain of shiny black plastic. That’s better.

Relieved, I walk to the center of the airy, and now empty room and let my eyes roam the bare wooden walls. There’s nothing left. No furniture or boxes filled with memories of my marriage throughout the years, not one bitter memento. I got rid of it all because each picture, each rickety chair, each item resurfaced a pain so deep, so crippling within me that it made it hard to breathe.