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He’s not Doc….
He heats up the kiss, tangling his tongue with mine, making the taste bitter, but I ignore it, promising myself to give it a chance.
After a few minutes, he slows the kiss, then pulls back with a smile, and rasps, “I’ll call you?”
I give him a nod and peck his lips again before heading inside, all while feeling dirty. As soon as I walk into my apartment, the silence hits me. The pain from my parents swishing around my head, the blood from the guy I buried, the look in Prue’s eye when Doc confirmed he’d made her his old lady, that they were starting a family, and then the pain I felt seeing my baby—it’s all drowning me, the pressure on my chest pulling me down.
“Push, darling. You’ve got this,littlecuz, push,” Alex whispers in my ear as he holds up my leg.
I shake my head and sob, “I-I can’t.”
If I push, it means my baby really is gone.
I blink away the tears, ignoring the sight of the blood I always see on the floor, the leaves surrounding it, and head to the shower to wash the filth off.
“It’s a girl,” Dr. Lansley whispers as he places the baby on my chest, and I cry. Alex kisses my head, touching my little girl's back.
“She’s so small,” I sob, wishing she would make a sound, open her eyes—something…but nothing.
She’s so still….
She’s dead.
I squeeze my eyes shut and put my face under the water, trying to drown my thoughts. I spent years being abused by my parents, heck, I was nearly raped because of my own mother. The man I’ve loved since I was a child chose someone else, yet saying goodbye to the baby I grew to love was what made me break. Being strong was no longer an option.
Alex grips my waist, and my legs weaken, my knees shaking as we watch the tiny coffin move into the cremation oven.
My daughter.
Slowly, I turn and place my back on the cold shower wall, the urge to call Doc hitting me hard. I slowly sink to the shower floor, putting my head back and letting the water wash over me.
I lie in bed, still wearing my black dress from the funeral, and grab my phone.
I need him.
I ignore the photo of me and my daughter, and go to my contacts. I press the green button on his name.
It rings five times before he answers.
“Pixie baby?”
He sounds tired, so tired.
“Pixie? Talk to me, baby, please….”
My tears fall before a gut-wrenching sob falls from my lips, my body shaking with the pain I feel.
“Kennedy, please baby, talk to me please,” he pleads, but I keep crying; I can’t speak.
“Pixie, please. Hearing you this upset and being unable to hold you, please, talk to me. I love you, Kennedy, please….”
Pain slices through me. Working with babies daily is hard; my daughter is always on my mind. I’m trying to continue with my life, but I’m struggling.
I need my Lucas, but he’s not mine, he’s hers. No matter how much he says he loves me, I don’t believe him because he wouldn’t be with her. He wouldn’t have chosen her.
I blink, my fingers automatically going to my collarbone, gently running my fingers along the small pink and red roses on a branch beneath my daughter’s name, the feeling of wanting to die hitting me hard once again.
I blink, my eyes looking at the pills in my hand.
