[Short] Phantom Child
Warning: Implied miscarriage and suicide.
Word count: 550~
Phantom Child
She gasps as her chest heaves with each short breath. The splatters of red on the white bathroom floor is too bright. Her hand clutches the slight swell of her belly, as if it could keep the growing body inside of her in tact.
The last thing she sees before the bathroom blurs into darkness is her unborn child crying.
--
There are wordless voices droning above her, spats thrown at each other heatedly. She could tell the distinct sound of Francis’ rich voice.
When she opens her eyes, she is greeted by the sight of Francis’s stubbly chin.
“You should shave,” she wants to say. Her throat constricts at the effort until she chokes, gagging, and she almost loses consciousness again until someone turns her onto her side and rubs her back.
“...Too close...”
“If you hadn’t...”
“...Gentlemen...”
“...out!”
There are too many voices rising over another. She couldn’t tell anymore which is which. The only sound she could here is the wail of her child searching for his mother.
--
Men outside shove sea of snow off their driveways as frosts continue to fall. A never ending cycle of shoving and piling; it annoys her.
Behind her, Francis watches her back. It has been too close, the doctor said. If he hadn’t found her on time, she would have died.
She ignores him just as she’s been doing since she remembered what happened, that morning (or afternoon) in the hospital. She doesn’t know when she’ll stop. She only knows that she still can’t face him. The only thing she could look at now are the snow and the white lines on her wrists and arms and belly.
He doesn’t let her leave the bedroom anymore. The other day he did and she had snuck into the kitchen for a glass of water. There was no glass to be found, only plastic and paper cups. She doesn’t miss the lack of knives or forks.
The only thing remotely made of glass left in the house are the windows. Even the mirror in the bathroom has been removed. The bathroom downstairs that Francis uses is locked. She figures he must have moved all of his toiletries there, because even his razor isn’t lying next to her toothbrush anymore.
She still hasn’t spoken. If she could, she doesn’t know. Francis hasn’t tried talking to her since they settled back. He’s too afraid of picking her wounds and she doesn’t have the impetus to think of a word to say.
He watches her watch the snow outside. There are times when he would lay a hand on her shoulder, but those moments have become rare and rarer until she cannot remember what his palm feels like anymore.
She touches her belly, her hand cupping the swell there just as a heavy hand touches her shoulder and squeezes. Another hand covers hers, pulling it away from her belly. She can feel something rough scraping against her neck and her jaw, rubbing, as if scratching an itch.
Her eyes remain watching the falling snow as wet sobs drench her hair and her neck with tears.
“I can feel her kicking.”
She laughs. She can feel a bright smile splitting her face. Behind her, clutching her tightly, Francis cries.
For once, I'd like to hear comments and interpretations.
Word count: 550~
Phantom Child
She gasps as her chest heaves with each short breath. The splatters of red on the white bathroom floor is too bright. Her hand clutches the slight swell of her belly, as if it could keep the growing body inside of her in tact.
The last thing she sees before the bathroom blurs into darkness is her unborn child crying.
--
There are wordless voices droning above her, spats thrown at each other heatedly. She could tell the distinct sound of Francis’ rich voice.
When she opens her eyes, she is greeted by the sight of Francis’s stubbly chin.
“You should shave,” she wants to say. Her throat constricts at the effort until she chokes, gagging, and she almost loses consciousness again until someone turns her onto her side and rubs her back.
“...Too close...”
“If you hadn’t...”
“...Gentlemen...”
“...out!”
There are too many voices rising over another. She couldn’t tell anymore which is which. The only sound she could here is the wail of her child searching for his mother.
--
Men outside shove sea of snow off their driveways as frosts continue to fall. A never ending cycle of shoving and piling; it annoys her.
Behind her, Francis watches her back. It has been too close, the doctor said. If he hadn’t found her on time, she would have died.
She ignores him just as she’s been doing since she remembered what happened, that morning (or afternoon) in the hospital. She doesn’t know when she’ll stop. She only knows that she still can’t face him. The only thing she could look at now are the snow and the white lines on her wrists and arms and belly.
He doesn’t let her leave the bedroom anymore. The other day he did and she had snuck into the kitchen for a glass of water. There was no glass to be found, only plastic and paper cups. She doesn’t miss the lack of knives or forks.
The only thing remotely made of glass left in the house are the windows. Even the mirror in the bathroom has been removed. The bathroom downstairs that Francis uses is locked. She figures he must have moved all of his toiletries there, because even his razor isn’t lying next to her toothbrush anymore.
She still hasn’t spoken. If she could, she doesn’t know. Francis hasn’t tried talking to her since they settled back. He’s too afraid of picking her wounds and she doesn’t have the impetus to think of a word to say.
He watches her watch the snow outside. There are times when he would lay a hand on her shoulder, but those moments have become rare and rarer until she cannot remember what his palm feels like anymore.
She touches her belly, her hand cupping the swell there just as a heavy hand touches her shoulder and squeezes. Another hand covers hers, pulling it away from her belly. She can feel something rough scraping against her neck and her jaw, rubbing, as if scratching an itch.
Her eyes remain watching the falling snow as wet sobs drench her hair and her neck with tears.
“I can feel her kicking.”
She laughs. She can feel a bright smile splitting her face. Behind her, clutching her tightly, Francis cries.
For once, I'd like to hear comments and interpretations.