Emancipation

sixty

She has turned on the other side of the bed, with now her back to me. I settle the tray down on my side of the bed and speak up, "Lil, breakfast."

Her shoulders stiffen at the mention of food and I pray to god that she doesn't protest like two of the five times she talked to me was to deny eating. When she doesn't move, I go to the other side of the bed and kneel down in front of her.

She has her eyes shut closed and I hesitantly bring my hand up to caress her cheek, grateful because she hasn't pulled away once from my touch. If she did, all this effort would be down the drain because I'm hanging by the straw.

"You need to eat, please," I start and she opens her eyes, the blue orbs swirling with pain as they meet mine. "If you don't eat, you won't be able to take meds and you know that's important, right?"

She gulps, nodding, her eyes filling with tears as she moves to sit up and a moment of relief washes over me at her effort. Without exchanging a single word, she just picks up the tray and moves to have her breakfast, and I can't help the satisfaction that bubbles inside me.

Her eyes meet mine and I offer her a small smile, already aware that it wouldn't be returned. She goes back to eating while I stand up, "I'm going to run a warm bath for you."

When she doesn't protest, I immediately take that as her agreement so after putting out her meds, I move to the bathroom and run the water for her. Last night when she woke up crying, she didn't say a word, she just cried into her pillow until I pulled her closer and then she cried into my chest before she fell asleep. 

I want to say so much to her, and I have, I have tried but all I've gotten in response is a nod. This is not the end. She must know that. Even if every doctor confirms what Dr Lea has told us, this isn't the end. We can still adopt, and I know she wouldn't object to that but right now, she doesn't need to hear the alternatives. She needs to grieve.

When I step into the bedroom, she's nowhere to be seen and her dishes are gone too. I groan a little because I already know where to find her. I don't want to push her over the edge, or say anything remotely wrong but she needs to rest – two weeks, at least.

"Lillian," I call out when I enter the kitchen, "Please don't be like this. I got your dishes, I got this, love. Just please go take a bath and rest."

I stand behind her, taking the glass from her hand as she closes the faucet and turns around to see me, "Don't worry, James. I don't have anyone besides me to look after anymore. I got this."

Sixth time, and her words slice right through my heart. I gulp, trying not to let my hurt be evident on my face as I take the blow.

"That's not fair," I manage to speak with a calm tone and she immediately scoffs at me.

"Don't talk to me about fair."

She passes by my side and I hold in my anger until she's out of the sight before my grip on the glass turns so tight that it ends up shattering in my hand, the glass immediately cutting through my palm as it drops to the floor.

"Fuck!" I curse, bending down to pick up the shattered pieces. She must've heard the glass but she wouldn't bother coming out, I know that much by now. It's a miracle to get her to care for anything these days.

It's strange how cold her tone was, almost alien to me because I've never witnessed it before. How the fuck is this my fault? I am aware of the words I spilled, but I was being a dick, and sometimes I say things with the right intention which come out wrong but I lost the baby too. 

As the blood through my cut continues to spill, I first move my hand under the water to stop the bleeding. I wrap a rag around it before moving to the bar and picking up a bottle of whiskey. I bring it to the sink before uncapping it and spilling the content of it on my hand, a loud hiss leaving me due to the sting.