Preg-Not ✓

41

She faded in and out of sleep for a long time. Maksim and her body aches were always there when she woke up.

She asked when she would see the babies once, twice, five times. She listened closely, hoping to pick out a baby's cry, but it never came. Her ears only heard static, and her arms remained empty.

Eventually, she realized that the babies wouldn't be coming.

The pain medication and sedatives took the fight out of her, but her heart wouldn't be defeated. It ached day and night as she cried.

Maksim sat beside her as she wasted away. He was trying to be strong for her, but she knew that he was decaying, too. His head remained on the mattress, his shame too heavy to allow him to lift it and meet her eyes.

They didn't speak in one, two– she lost track of the days. When he started feeding her, they made eye contact, and the only thing she could manage to rasp was, "I even failed my babies."

She was a failure of a daughter, a failure of a citizen, a failure of a mother.

No matter how much Maksim brushed her hair back and whispered against her cheek that she wasn't to blame, no matter how tightly he gripped her hand, no matter how much he cried with her, she didn't believe him.

The only thing she mothered was failure.

He was taking her home that day. The wheelchair was propped beside the bed, and the curtains of the windows were spread wider than usual. Maksim was a little more enthusiastic, desperate to get more signs of life out of her.

She stared at the wheelchair, and then at the breast-pump on her lap. This was always the hardest part of the day. Having to pump the nutrition that her body made for her boys and disposing it because it was no longer needed.

Maksim waited outside to give her privacy, but she knew he was beside the door, listening for signs of distress. For signs of a suicide attempt.

Her eyes found the butter knife on the bedside table.

Suicide. It was a tempting thought.

She sat up on the pillows and the shift irritated her c-section scar. She felt maimed and robbed. Ugly and fruitless.

She put the pump aside and stared at the contents of milk– the last proof that she had her babies inside of her.

Maksim walked in, and she didn't look away as he carried her off the bed and onto the wheelchair.

"We're going home, and I'll be right beside you."

He wouldn't be enough. She wanted her children; those that accompanied her through 8 months of grief, joy, and hope. They made her see life in a different way. They sent her to new adventures anywhere from the toilet to puke, to the supermarket to buy ice cream, to YouTube, to New York as she tried to reconquer their father's love.

Without them, she was literally and figuratively empty.

Maksim tucked a blanket around her, securing it around her hips and accidentally skimming her bare womb.

She lowered her face to hide her tears, and Maksim began to roll her out. She heard and saw things in her peripheral vision, but she had no motivation to explore the world anymore.

Maksim helped her into a car seat, and then they were off. The only thing she noticed was that he brought her to a new penthouse. There were no baby clothes or piggy banks here. Fewer reminders.

He helped her to the bed, and as usual, kneeled beside it.

This was a mess. Dirt was everywhere. Their flowers had been crushed; their relationship uprooted. The mess was so chaotic and ugly that it was jarring.