Bad Memories... :  Part 7

    By Nitemare Queen

     Harsh shakes turned my world topsy-turvy.  I felt rather like Alice falling down the rabbit hole as I saw all the elements of my nightmares combining and mixing, like a strong red mixing with the vibrant green of earth, only to form a muddy brown.  I thought my eyes were open.  But I still saw the kaleidoscope of mating colours.

     “Destiny!” Pete’s voice rang like a shot, echoing in my mind.  But it brought me out from my drugged trip of dreams.  I was lying between Pete and Logan, both of whom were awake.  Reaching for my throat, I still felt the cold blade, though never in my life had I ever had a knife to my throat, and I whimpered at the memory, though it felt real.  There was no blade on my throat, no blood running down my neck, I was clothed, and not bleeding.

     “Destiny!” Pete said again, grabbing a hold of my arm, and bringing me to look him in the eye, even though he had talked quietly, my name echoed continuously in my head.  Maybe I was still in the dream.

     I felt a wave of nausea crash over me, and I crawled for the edge of the bed.  Then, I lost it, I was vomiting, and my stomach, which had been full of the previous evening’s meal, was emptied.  Tears joined in, but it took me a while to realize they were mine.  The last thing that I can remember about that night was tasting blood in my mouth before I started to fall.
 
 

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     She finally woke up around 3:30 PM the following day.  Pete and I had managed to get her down to the infirmary with little trouble.  Destiny was now resting on a gurney with IV’s in her arm and a heart rate monitor that graphed her heart beat.  She was still nauseous, and upon waking vomited only more blood.  I had yet to figure out what was wrong, but something surely was amiss.

     Pete, who had been reading through a medical book borrowed from Beast’s incredible library, had thrown the book aside and grasped Destiny while she threw up.  She shook in his arms as I watched from outside the room, trying to figure out the world she lived in and the previous night’s dream.  Maybe she has an ulcer.  The stress she’s been dealing with would certainly be more than enough to make that problem, but there was something else.  I needed to do an ultrasound.  If she was throwing up blood, there might be a threat to the baby.  I wouldn’t know for sure, I’ve never been pregnant, but good chance.

     The other situation I’d found myself in was that of needing to move Des somewhere, and soon.  I’d been lucky.  The team had been on a vacation for the past month, but with the team’s luck, it could be over any day now.  Des was not exactly what Cyc’ would like to find in ‘his’ team’s mansion.  The Professor might not enjoy having yet another killing machine in this house either.  Damn.

     This would be difficult.  Only two people can fit in the smaller aircraft, and using the Blackbird was just a bad idea.  The speed, which Des was not used to, would harm her even more.  She needed to be moved… helicopter… it would work…
 
 

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     The snow crunched under the boots Logan had loaned to me as I walked outside to breathe the crisp air.  Walking felt so wonderful.  Two weeks up here had helped me, but I still felt… unbalanced… not truly healed.  I couldn’t put my finger on what was wrong though.  The vomiting blood had stopped, but I was now bleeding in other ways, as if I was on a normal period.  And I was cramping.  But the air felt so cleansing to my lungs, so I tried to ignore the pain and bury myself in the beauty of the moment.  Snow, white, clean, so innocent… maybe I don’t belong here.  It just seemed too… perfect…  I couldn’t bring myself to make footprints in the newly fallen snow.  Tears sprang up.  I just couldn’t be that innocent anymore.  My hands were covered in the bloods of hundreds of people, but I was justified.  I had never killed a civilian.  I had maintained my innocence throughout this whole ordeal, except for now, knowing what was inevitable.

     The door suddenly swung open, and Logan clad in a tee shirt, boxers, and socks stuck his head out into the cold dawn.  He stretched an arm out from the warm cabin and pulled me back inside.  He pulled the coat off of my shoulders, and placed it on a coat rack.  Picking me up he slid the shoes off of my cold feet and set them at the doorstop.  I was then carried to the bedroom where upon entrance I was thrown onto the bed with a gruff, “I told you to stay in bed.”

    Pouting I crawled back under the warm, soft covers, and watched at he shut the door.  Damn him to hell.  All I wanted was a walk.  I was tired of this “Weakling” shit, I felt fine, pardon the pain, and cramping… and bleeding… Ok, so I wasn’t up to my full one-hundred-percent yet, I’d get there.  I’ll be out in the battlefield in a week, maybe two once this stops.  The flashbacks had reduced in quantity and I now dreamt in my usual black nothingness.  My aim had returned to its amazing accuracy… but I was still pregnant.

     Feels kind of strange, with something, someone, inside of you, helpless, needing you.  Makes you feel personally responsible for that life, that innocent, new existence in you.  And I knew what was happening.  I’d been trying for too long to try to deny it.  My body was too weak to handle the pregnancy, the physical mal-treatment, hell, the utter abuse of my body, had torn it up from the inside out.  I couldn’t handle being pregnant, and my body was ending it.  I’d been trying to do everything I could, eating right, exercising, meditating (not that much, but some) and still, I just could not maintain the equilibrium to keep my child.  My child.  Mine.  Not his, yes, created by him, but mine.  Living in me, depending on me, and my body was killing it.  Her, it was killing her.  My baby was a little girl.  I’d picked out a name too, before my body had started to rebel.  Sapphire Delirium Anastasia Pyro.  It sounded stupid together, but for some reason, it just fit.
 
     And now my jewel, my only precious possession to my name, to my blood, was being killed, by me.  I was murdering my own child, my own blood.  Sure I’d killed before, hell, I was a professional hit man, hit woman anyway, but never, had I killed anyone so close to me.  Never had I killed a piece of my own heart.  I was ashamed that I was not strong enough to save my baby, that I was weak.  For the only time in my life that I could remember I had taken on the translation of my name, “delicate.”  I was strong when I was raped day after day, regardless of how my ribs were hurting, or how every inch of my body was covered in sweat, blood or bodily fluids, I was strong and I had escaped.  Never had I been weak before, not since my parents had died.  Now I was weak.  Not even strong enough to maintain my little girl’s life, and it was all my fault.  If I’d eaten more broccoli, or drank more milk, maybe even taken iron and vitamins, but I didn’t do enough, so now I was murdering the only blood I had.
 
 

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     Watching Logan cook can do one of two things, either amaze you, or frighten you.  Currently, with him cutting steak, and cooking what he called hibachi steak and him preparing sautéed mushrooms, onions, zucchinis and squash, I was rather frightened.  Dinner to me meant a few shots of scotch and a few cigarettes, not all of this cutting, and slashing.  Dinner is supposed to be simple and easy, but so much for my “Western” ways of eating.  I politely excused myself from the counter and went to go take a quick shower before I had to eat all of this foolery.

     As I entered the room I could see the bathroom light from under the closed door.  Destiny must have gotten the same idea.  I knocked, then after hearing, “Come in,” I turned the knob and walked into what I could have sworn was a sauna.  Destiny was standing by the mirror, applying make-up as if she needed it.  There was a pile of clothes next to her, and as she stood in a towel at the counter I noticed blood spots on the floor.  They were in a trail that looked as if it had been hastily wiped up.  There were blood-soaked tissues in the garbage, and the blood was fresh.  This was making no sense and quick.  I turned to Destiny, and she, without even allowing me to speak, told me what was going on.

     “I’m bleeding.  Menstruating.  Miscarrying.  My baby is dying.  Please,” She turned to me in tears, “please, don’t tell Logan.  I have to.  Not now, but soon.  Please promise me you won’t say a word.”  As I looked into her half-and-half eyes crying all I could do was nod.  So this was why she’d been eating more, and trying harder to exercise.
 
     She turned back to the mirror, finished with her makeup and started to dress.  They were oriental robes, silk it looked like, and she knew how to correctly put them on too.  They were beautiful on her.  Black on Lavender on Green-ish-Teal.  She looked wondrous, and I told her as much.  She knew he’d smell it, know it, and he’d understand her silence.  Perhaps he’d be the only one to understand it.  It was the one thing that had remained.

     Des had dressed and left the room, after pulling out two new towels for me.  Hot water felt wonderful, I’d never realized that.  Strange how the few things you forget to notice are some of the richest in life.  I could think again, and I could forget again.  It was a perfect drug.

    Des needed so much, and I knew she hated it.  Her child, what was it… Sapphire was dying inside of her, and she was breaking, it might kill her.  She started out neutral about the baby, now, she’d accepted her, and wanted her, maybe in some way she needed her.  It would never matter now.  Des knew what was happening, she knew it was hopeless, and still she tried, what would happen when the baby did finally die? What would Des do?  What would I do?  And Logan?  What would happen to all of us?  Would she crack, would she die inside, and finally, maybe, be at peace?

    Would we bury her?  Or would he go to the hospital and let them deal with the baby?  Des couldn’t keep denying this.  She had to learn to accept it, and yet, after all I’d seen her go through, watched her feel joy for this child, how could she ever accept the death, and not believe it was her fault?  What if she had a family in the future?  How would she deal with having a child?  With being pregnant again?  Would I ever see her again?  Would she hate me?  Would she hate herself?
 
    Questions kept flowing through my head, and I cried.  My tears were rinsed away with the water, and still they kept coming.  I love her.  She loved me.  Maybe even loves me.  But we’ll never be the same, we’ll never retain that perfection that we once had, that closeness.  This may be the last time I’m ever near and dear to her.  The last time I’ll hold her while she cries, or when she shakes at night.  I’ll be special to her, yes, but truly close to her heart, and beloved, never again.  And it hurt so much to realize this, and I cried.  And cried.  The end is always the saddest beginning.