Wings of Light

Blood-Curdling Adventures

Even though the Bostonian could find herself in a sheer euphoria and dumbfoundness, clouding her overwhelmed hurricane of thoughts with the recent results of the pregnancy test and leaking its absolute reality, her round knees couldn't stabilize her straightened posture except sedating and draining unceasingly the physical stamina, constructing her anatomy with pelting down her twin knees to contact the tiled floor. The haphazardness of its thud pitched the background's resilient, dull doldrum.

"P-Pregnant?" Reciting in murmur, awkwardly rolled into a stammer with mellow timbre sailing out of her mouth after hooking her flimsily creamy, marbled fingers around the pregnancy test, stifling series of gasps and further noises to be elaborated shortly after clamping her front still firm, ivory teeth to gnaw on the raw spot of her lower plumpish lip thoughtfully, flabbergastedly. Twin chubby, bountifully soar tears sloppily swayed onto her lower eyelids and trickling downward her creamy, well-scuptured cheeks at the second amusing pregnancy that spookily altered her night on thirty and sixty degrees. "It's impossible!" Her solely free elvish, alabaster hand's fingertips managed to prop her dropped in duck head's glossy forehead, fixating her glassily flabbergasted hazelish-brown big, roundish jewels on the pregnancy test's recent results with their bewitching aftermaths. Even though the former pious sister of the church came to the conclusion that her luck is far cry from low spirited for her age and she's too lucky to be become a mother for second time within seven months at least, nevertheless, it didn't cease her disappointment from the greedily lucrative, manipulative doctor granting her a broken promise for her fertility back in her younger years.

The entire clash of explicitly heartbreaking sugarcoatedly ugly lies that was once the actual ugly truth, itself, brightly stark contrasting to the naked truth of the absolute reality echoed throughout into the Bostonian's hurricane of thoughts and stilling to listen to the echo of the lucratively greedy doctor that lied to her she's infected with syphilis from her first ever love. It was grotesquely morbid and heartbreaking with its unmasked lie in the thickly unpredictable mask of the truth, falling out of its sugarcoated personage abruptly and diminishing its glossiness and shimmering brightly, bleakly the naked reality of the solved dilemma with the fertility. Sooner or later, every lie was strong-willedly exposed, regardless the owner's slyness and mastery in tricksterness.

What it hurted more than anything Jude for blindly, diabolically believing a pure remnant of lie for a few decades before and after dwelling out of the past life she's been through its ordeals, the pregnancy and motherhood were the welcoming presents, embracing her with open arms celestially to grace her current life as a loving mother, spectacular wife and a brilliantly responsible and diligent flowerstore saleswoman and a well-organized leader.

All of a sudden, the British aristocrat registered his colossal, veiny hand to unwrap the duvet from his figure, in order to seat on the edge of the king-sized bed for a split second and thus hopping up in the convenient, plain pair of slippers by aiming up to the en-suite bathroom to check on his wife, flushing his nostrils with a heavy, jadedly concerned sigh.

As soon as he straightened his posture and marched up to the en-suite bathroom's wooden door, subsequently he ushered his hand to fashion into a balled fist to rap on the door a couple of times, keeping the older lady's wits about his recent condition and very presence.

"Rare bird, is everything okay?" The elaborating process of the vowels and syllables to reproduce a rational enquiry, oozing of its genuine concerns tingled alarming tones into the blonde's ears like an absent, forgotten ballad of its light, aggressively howling summer breeze in a summer night, in spite of her sheer oblivion and her excessive focus on the current results of the pregnancy test. "Rare bird," Anticipating fashionably presentable for a rational response or at least a farther reaction from the Bostonian, it was a perfectly normal, spontaneously embarrassing moment for the British compatriot. An eerie flat line blurred each pattern, texturing with any wee hints of mirth or despondence, twisted across his face. The mellow timbre, chanting the friendly, romantically amorous nickname of the older woman didn't even attract a small glimpse of her attention, unfortunately. It wasn't under any form of a smile, nor a frown. Just fairly embodying the whole weight of worries clinging to his facial attributes.