I’d be quickly throwing together a lunch for her while she eats her Cheerios on Benjamin’s lap…
I hear the clatter of the plate falling into the sink as I completely let go, losing hold of myself altogether, the dam finally crumbling. The force of my grief is impressively powerful and steals my air from my lungs. Painful, loud wails come from a deep part of my chest, and I’m unable to hold back. I shield my face with both my hands, gutted by the memories I created in my mind. An arm winds around my chest, and Benjamin’s body conforms to my back.
“I-I’m s-sorry. I’m being s-stupid.”
“Shh, baby. Shh.”
“God, I hate this!” I sob, clutching his arm tightly while he nudges my cheek with soft, tender kisses. He was right. Tonight was my undoing.
“Let it out. Let it out, love.”
I suck in desperate gasps, as though I’m running out of oxygen. He moves his hand from my shoulder upwards, massaging the curve of my neck.
“W-Why does it hurt like this?” I sob. “I can picture her in my head. Why? Why does it hurt like this?”
“Because you already loved her.”
His words release a new, powerful wave of tears, and he doesn’t let me go. His grip never loosens. Bludgeoning rakes of hurt course through me as I manage to calm myself in his arms. Embarrassed, I reach out for a napkin, hoping removing the tear stains will stop them from falling. My swollen skin resists the rough material.
His phone rings on the table.
“I’m okay. Get it,” I say, yearning for a moment alone. He moves slow but eventually does as I ask. He answers his cell briskly, saying only his name.
“No, no. That’s the wrong form. We already spoke about this.”
His voice fades as he walks away, probably to the bedroom. I set down the napkin on the counter and pick up the plates, determined to finish washing them. The tears don’t completely cease.
I shut off the lights and walk into the living room, taking a seat on the sofa. The apartment is dead quiet, other than the soft rumble of Benjamin’s voice in the room. My eyes are heavy and ready for the blissful darkness sleep brings.
I don’t hear Benjamin when he returns, only noticing when he sits beside me. He lifts the arm not casted, and I gratefully mold my body to his chest, settling into the crook of his arm.
“It kills me to see you like this.”
I wish I could wrap my arms around him, but unfortunately, his entire torso is one big battlefield of wounds. I settle on grasping his hand, careful of the healing cut on his palm.
“I wish we could go back, back to our honeymoon…back to when everything was perfect.”
He nods his chin against my hair. “Me too.”
***
I stand at the dresser staring at myself in the mirror as I chase my medication down with a sip of water. I fondle the strand of black hair I’ve placed perfectly to cover the couple of stitches I have on my forehead. I honestly have no idea why they look so terrifying, but they do. I run my hand over a yellow bruise on my lip.
Using a dark lipstick, I try my best to cover up what I can. The cons of going out in public. We’ve been in hiding, and no doubt the media is waiting to catch the first instance we attempt to reacquaint ourselves with the world.
I’m just lucky they don’t know about the baby. I press down underneath my eyes, remembering yesterday, remembering the pain. This morning I woke up with no tears. I felt a resolve, a calmness that scares me. I recall what Benjamin said to his sister at the dinner table yesterday.
It’s like…like I willed her to lose it.
The words make my mouth dry. The thought that he’s holding the miscarriage, the accident, over his head is heartbreaking. Shame falls upon me at the thought that I haven’t done much to sway his dark thoughts. I move over to the bed, choosing a pair of black flats to match my dress. With the bathroom door open, I catch a glimpse of my glorious husband.
He has on a clear wrapping around his sprained limb, a clear sling holding up his arm in place. He’s running his free hand through his hair, spreading shampoo through the long locks. I’m transfixed by his dominating stance even when completely alone. He glances through the glass, shocked to find me there, watching him. The burns on his chest stand out next to the dark hair trailing over his pecs. His wound, that will most definitely scar, crosses over almost half of his abdomen, looking fierce and painful.
I don’t even realize I’m undressing until I open the shower door, stepping in. He’s watching me carefully, his hand on his stomach. I’m aware I’m about to ruin all the work I just did making my face look presentable, but I couldn’t care less. I shut the glass behind me, now in close proximity with this Adonis of a husband. I raise myself onto my tiptoes, smoothing the shampoo into his hair, making sure all of it is covered. He tilts his head under the shower, letting the water do its work untangling whatever knots there were.
I want to comfort him. I want to adore him and show him love.
“Aren’t you late?” he asks.
