KevinStann

Heyo readers! This chapter's tonally a lot darker than the rest of the series and contains potentially triggering content if you're sensitive to the idea of miscarriages. It's also a POV switch, which is the first time that's happened in this series. Tell me what you think!

What's revealed in this chapter won't be super important to the overarching narrative, so if it isn't your cup of tea, feel free to skip it. It's a little bit of characterization to explain how Karlsson has acted and will act moving forward.

It was the end of Summer when I found out she was pregnant. We were sitting in my car, watching the sunset when she decided to drop the bomb. To say that I was terrified would be an understatement. We’d been married the previous year, but I wasn’t ready to become a father yet. I was in my late twenties and had a lot to prove, I didn’t want to be saddled with a brat. Not yet, anyway.

But, it was too late for regrets. In spite of my fear, I threw myself into becoming a father with all I had. As much fun as I had in fast-paced risky ventures where a ton of money was either made or lost every single day, I could no longer participate. I needed to become more stable. So, I did. Over the span of her pregnancy, I changed. I turned from a young man, with the world wide open in front of him, into a dad. A stable, boring, dad.

My wife had a troublesome pregnancy and needed help with a great many things. It was okay though, I loved her. This was just my opportunity to more fully express that. I’d played with many women in my day, but she was the only one I could ever say that I really loved. She truly was the only one for me.

Over those 7 months, we became much closer than we ever had been before. Although I was trading a bit of my future for our future child, I was just happy to be with her. Every day was bright, even on her off-days, when the pregnancy got really bad. Those days spent painting the new nursery, shopping for clothes… everything. I wouldn’t trade them for the world.

She was so excited to be a mother. She’d been dreaming of the family we would have, and the life we would share with them. It happened a little sooner than either of us had anticipated, but we could handle it, just like we always did. We were a team.

Then, things changed.

We were in a clinic for a checkup on her pregnancy. The baby had stopped kicking, and we were a little worried.

“What do you mean there’s no heartbeat?”

“On the ultrasound it-”

“No, I get it, but… how?” Miranda was laying in a bed in a hospital gown. A doctor had pulled me out into the hallway to speak with me before informing her. Our baby had died, and we never received a reason as to why.

Our lives fell into shambles then.

Suddenly, I wasn’t a dad anymore. Initially, that title terrified me, but somewhere along the way, I’d grown into that role. I was ready to be a father. I wanted to be a father.

I wasn’t going to be a father.

It devastated me, sent me into a deep depression for a good while. Now Miranda… it destroyed her. She became a completely different woman nearly overnight. The liveliness and joviality that defined our relationship became stoicism and silent suffering in the blink of an eye.

I wanted to help her, I tried to help her, but I don’t know if she wanted to be helped.

It was a few weeks after the miscarriage that I came home to a seemingly empty house. Our house was never this silent.

“Miranda?”

No response.

Suddenly, my heart leaped to my throat. She wouldn’t do something so rash… no way. “Miranda! Where are you!”

No response.

My anxiety spiked, and I began to dash around the rooms in the dark house, calling her name.

Finally, I found her. Kneeling down in the nursery we’d built, clutching a small, fuzzy blanket we’d intended for our child. The only sound that could be heard was her choked sobs.

“Miranda...”

“Why did it have to be this way?”

“I… don’t know.” I wanted to say something, anything, but I didn’t know what.

We stood in silence for a great while, until I managed to get her to bed.

She needed to hear something that day. What it was, I don’t know. That was the beginning of her descent. Every day I’d find her in that nursery. She’d sit in a rocking chair in the corner, and stare out of the window.

“Honey, please, you can’t keep doing this.” She just kept rocking and staring out of the window.

Another day, “Miranda, please. Come to bed. I miss you.” She just continued staring through the window into the night.

Another day, “Miranda, come to bed, we need to talk.”

Weeks passed, “You’re going to lose it if you keep doing this.”

Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer, “Fine then! I don’t care anymore! Rock yourself to death!”

It was nearly a year before she finally got over spending hours every day in that nursery. By the time she stopped almost completely, she was no longer the woman I loved. She was bitter, spiteful, and complained about the most mundane things. The kind of things she would joke about before.

My attraction to her had completely waned. We hadn’t had sex since the miscarriage, and when we tried again, it was miserable. I simply didn’t find her attractive anymore, and she wasn’t interested in the adventurous and fun sex we’d had in the past.

We drifted apart, and within another few years, we were little more than housemates. That was almost twenty years ago. Any spark we once had disappeared at least that long ago as well.

We should’ve divorced a long time ago. I have no idea why we didn’t.

I was resigned to my tepid marriage for a long time. If my wife wasn't going to give me what I need, I might as well get it from someone else, so I did. I dusted off my long-unused charms and snagged a few friends with benefits. Some were coworkers, others were just chance meetings. I spent a long time finding new pieces of ass, it was like a hobby in my otherwise mundane life. Now, however, none of that seems to matter.

I almost died a few weeks ago. A chemical attack, perpetrated by some unknown force. If I had to guess, I would pin it on some particularly malicious students who didn’t appreciate my rigorous grading. That’s all conjecture, however, and unimportant to what I’m saying.

Death really helps you refocus on what’s important. Those minutes spent dying on the floor felt like hours as I focused on my life, and the regrets held within. I thought I was going to die, so at least I should’ve faced my mistakes before I did.

I realized quite a few things then.

I still love my wife. I’d forgotten that a long time ago, but suddenly, I remembered. As I laid on the ground, chemicals filling my lungs, slowly killing me from the inside out, I remembered her face. Not her current, weathered, perpetually crestfallen face. Her face from twenty years ago, eyes filled with hope, wonder, love... everything we lost. I remembered the fun we had when we were younger, The passionate love we shared. The things I haven’t found anywhere else since.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I failed her. I failed as a husband, the person that should’ve always been there for her. I abandoned her to the demons dwelling within her, and they’ve twisted the people we both became.

I won’t let things stay like this any longer. Our child died twenty years ago. So why is he still in everything we do? Why can’t we escape a presence that’s no longer here?

Why won’t he just give me my damn wife back? Sure, she may have been his mother, but before that, she was the woman I loved. I’m going to fix things. I’m going to get my wife back, so you best take your greedy talons out of her, you goddamned fetus.