Takes place after this RP.
Word Count: 612
Olivia awakes in the hospital groggy, disoriented, and weak, but otherwise unharmed. You think it a miracle that she is still alive, like some divine or universal power told you to turn down that particular street that night. You've saved her life, and as a result you've saved the lives of your unborn children, but it was not such an easy task, for it came at the expense of another life.
Somewhere, someone else's child would not be coming home.
“What happened?” Olivia asks.
Her husband is at her bedside holding her hand. You stand on the other side with your husband, fighting back tears.
“You fainted,” you lie.
Olivia looks as if she might argue, looks as if she thinks there might be more to it than that, but you know her memory is hazy. She brings a hand to her head, shakes it slowly to clear it. Eventually she concedes.
“And the babies?” she asks, as worried for them as you are.
“The doctors say they're fine.”
There is relief in your voice, but pain too. You ache to hold your unborn children, to see them in the flesh instead of on a sonogram, to count their fingers and toes and watch their chests expand with each breath.
You have twenty-two weeks until the end of the pregnancy, but you are already a mother.
The doctor's keep Olivia overnight for observation. When you are sure that she is comfortable, when you are finally convinced that the babies will be well without you hovering, your husband leads you from the room and takes you home.
He guides you to the car, fastens the seatbelt your hands are too shaky to work. The drive home is quiet. Even the radio is silent for once. You stare out the window at the passing streetlights, which blur due to the tears that still hang in your eyes.
Home is welcoming. Chris guides you from the car as patiently as he guided you to it, takes you into the house and up the stairs into the bedroom.
There is where he takes you by the face and kisses you—a desperate thing, full of a passion you cannot quite make yourself return. He breathes heavily, holds you tight, whispers your name into the dim light, but you stand quiet and still, your thoughts drifting elsewhere.
When he kisses your mouth, all you can think about is the starseed you were forced to consume—the icy path it burned down your throat; the hollow pit in your stomach where you swear it still rests.
When he kisses your neck, you remember the sudden snap of another's. You wince and shy away, and when he asks you what is wrong you shake your head and bring his head to your chest, over your heart, where your starseed rests, protected.
You hold him close, and you tell yourself you will never let go.
You lie awake that night and you think of what you've done. Beside you, Chris sleeps fitfully, his sleep plagued by awful dreams.
When you are sure that he will not wake, you slide from the bed and make your way to the bathroom. You kneel in front of the toilet, and you stare into its depths as if it has all the answers.
It doesn't. Nothing does. But it will make you feel better for a time.
You force up the hatred and the anger and the anguish. You force up the lingering cold from the starseed as memories of that evening replay themselves in your mind.
And you wonder, could it have ended differently?
Does the outcome make you a monster?
