I blow out a deep breath, sinking into the mattress. I close my eyes, willing myself to sleep. The stress isn't helping my situation.
Attempting to get comfortable, I give in to the daunting fatigue.
It doesn't look like I'm going anywhere anytime soon.
I DON'T KNOW how long I sleep, but it's a deep, dream-filled slumber. Clips of my life turn over, mostly from when I'm a child. I remember the way the dreams feel more than what they're actually about. Loneliness is the star emotion. So lonely, so desolate. I just wanted someone to love me. Anyone. One of my foster parents, a teacher, my mother. Why couldn't she love me more than the drugs? I don't even know what she looked like. Despair takes over as I morph into an adult, watching as I hold a newborn in my arms. I'm humming. I'm happy. For the first time in my life, I feel happiness.
Then I look up, and my face is missing, just rubbed away. The baby screams, and I jolt awake.
"Oh, God!" I try to touch my stomach, but my hands are still bound over my head. "Damn it!" I scream, fighting against the metal. I just want to cradle my belly.
I look up and find Baz standing there with a tray, a confused expression, and riotous eyes. I hate him momentarily. Hate him for not allowing me to soothe myself and my child the way I need.
"Can you please fucking uncuff me?" I fight with the shackles.
"Calm the fuck down, and no," he snaps.
Rage radiates. "Baz!"
"You think I'm going to release you in this state? I'm crazy, not stupid." He places the tray down as my heart beats as hard as a bass drum.
With my limbs still slightly shaking, I force myself to calm down. That dream. That dreadful, wretched dream. I want to erase all remnants of it.
This baby will know who it's mother is. It will be loved. It will be cherished. It will be protected. So help me fucking God.
"You calm now?" Baz asks after a few long, agitating heartbeats.
"Yes, I'm fine," I lie. I'm nowhere close to fine.
Baz perches on the edge of the bed next to me, his usual spot, and picks a soda can up from the tray on the nightstand.
"Drink it." He shoves the long straw in my face. He brought me ginger ale. And when I glance over at the nightstand, there are crackers there, too. I can't believe it. Even in his fucked-up state, he heard me. He listened.
I take a long, slow pull of the crisp, sweet soda, and the cold effervescence instantly extinguishes the fire in my throat while the cool ginger calms the upset in my stomach. That small hint of relief is like a godsend.
I release the straw from my lips and sink back into the mattress. This little one is going to give me a run for my money, I can tell already.
"Finish it," Baz pushes.
I frown. "I can't. Too much at once will make me throw up. I can only have little bits at a time."
He doesn't look happy about that. "I can't sit here all day while you sip."
"Then don't. Uncuff me and leave me alone. I feel sick as a dog. All I want to do is curl up into a ball and hibernate until the second trimester."
"Nice try. But hell no." Baz bangs the ginger ale back onto the tray causing the whole nightstand to shake before he gets up and stomps out of the room, slamming the door behind him once again.
Someone needs anger management.
THREE WEEKS AGO, I went to sleep handcuffed to a bed, and when I woke up the restraints were gone. I believed a piece of the man I knew, I cared for, was still present and stirring under the frenzied façade of the person holding me hostage. When I told Baz I just wanted to curl up into a ball and hibernate, I meant it. I've felt like death the last few weeks, and barely been able to get out of bed. The first two weeks he kept me locked in the room, visiting periodically during the day to let me use the bathroom, bring me ginger ale and crackers, and soup when I could stomach it. For a psycho, he's quite attentive when he wants to be. Especially when I shower and he insists on watching. He doesn't let me out of his sight. He doesn't trust me, and he shouldn't. If I was in better health, I would definitely be feistier and harder to handle. But I'm so weak. So tired, the smallest exertion zaps my energy.
It's amazing that something the size of a pea can cause such havoc. Then again, the same could be said for a bullet.
The last day or two I've started to come around. The nausea going rather than coming in longer and longer bouts.
Astonishingly, I finished an entire bowl of soup yesterday under Baz's watchful eye. I choked down the stringy pieces of chicken and everything.
This morning though, something is different. I feel different. I feel hungry. No, not just hungry, famished. My stomach is actually growling.
"Well, someone has decided food is a good thing, huh?" I pat my usually flat tummy. The lack of nutrition has caused me to lose weight.