You decide to stay in bed, chalking your worries up to mere paranoia of the last few days.
Closing your eyes, you can see flashes of nightmarish imagery. A miscarriage, a creature with eyes that bulge from its sockets and a single hand that carries the mangled form of something, wet and crimson as it glistens in the low light.
You toss and turn, the tight sheets of the hospital bed coming loose as you slumber.
The night is long and restless, the blankets too itchy to rest, the pillow too hard to fall. And yet, your eyes remain closed, embracing you in a darkness that sickens your stomach.
Morning comes, greeted by the sight of a nurse shaking your arm, and two policemen standing tall behind her. Their hats are tucked under their hands, pressed against their chests as they stand still, like silent statues.
“Sir, we have urgent news.”
The nurse’s brows are furrowed with worry, her lip bitten as she tries to suppress her nerves. She takes a step back, letting the two solemn men step forward.
“We regret to inform you that your wife has died.”
Just like that. Blunt as the end of the ball. No warning, nothing. Hannah is dead. Your wife is gone and you’re just here, lying in a bed in some dank hospital.
The nurse and authorities step away from the bed, talking in hushed tones, their voices indistinct in your ear. It’s not like you care anyway, you’re reeling from the news, the horrible, horrible revelation that you’ll never see Hannah again.
But you can’t give up.
No, you just can’t. She wouldn’t want that. Not in a million years.