Post by Dark on Feb 14, 2008 13:55:15 GMT -5
Hadyn did not react well to his pregnancy. At all...
Warnings: Attempts of abortion; self-mutilation; general angst.
-----------
It was a small, one-bedroom affair with peeling, off-white paint and crummy plumbing that groaned when it got too cold. The bathroom was small and cramped, with yellowed and chipped tiles, and if he stretched out his arms he could touch both walls. The tub was an old-fashioned affair, deep set with clawed feet; it would have been pleasant if the plumbing would allow hot water. There was what passed for a small kitchenette, consisting of a single sink with exposed plumbing, an old gas stove, and several rickety shelves that couldn’t be trusted. There were two windows in the apartment, both with cracked and distorted frames of glass that gazed one east and the other west. The door—oak, with a dead bolt and chain—was the only this solid about the entire place.
---
He hadn’t thought much of it at first. He’d always had a rather hardy immune system, but he had been known to occasionally catch ill, and he’d simply attributed his nausea to the flu.
But it hadn’t gotten better.
Days turned into weeks, and the weeks eventually became months, and it became harder to deny that horrible conclusion.
He lost his appetite.
---
The first time he tried to kill the thing growing inside his belly, he walked twenty blocks to an apothecary where he was sure no one would recognize him. Hadyn knew what he was looking for—it was hard to not pick up something, growing up with two botanists—Elyse wouldn’t approve; he didn’t think about it—and the scraggily, moth-balled creature behind the counter handed over his requested parcel without fuss.
It was a mixture of Tansy and Silphium, both known to cause abortion, and in the right doses, fatal. He crushed the concoction into a tea, thinking of his aunt with a touch of hysteria.
The cup was emptied in one long pull.
His body betrayed him—vomited up that glorious elixir—another pale stain on the motley carpet.
The thing inside him continued to grow.
---
He was desperate, when he picked up the penknife. The thing inside him had started to push against the walls of his belly; greedy, wretched thing. His attempt at sabotage had only succeeded in causing the thing to leech more of his life away.
A keen blade began to part flesh: Sharp. Brilliant. Hands shaking, slick with blood; it was hard to press any deeper. He choked on snot and tears. Out. He wanted it out.
Too late; his own weakness working against him—passed out before he could finish.
He woke to fire, wracking his limbs with weakness and chills. He lay there in the growing darkness, and dreamt.
He wouldn’t remember his dreams when he woke.
---
Hadyn watched dust motes in the wane light of evening from where he lay on the floor, paw curled around the perceptible bulge of his midsection.
The jagged scar that raged across his belly throbbed in tandem with his heart.
Warnings: Attempts of abortion; self-mutilation; general angst.
-----------
It was a small, one-bedroom affair with peeling, off-white paint and crummy plumbing that groaned when it got too cold. The bathroom was small and cramped, with yellowed and chipped tiles, and if he stretched out his arms he could touch both walls. The tub was an old-fashioned affair, deep set with clawed feet; it would have been pleasant if the plumbing would allow hot water. There was what passed for a small kitchenette, consisting of a single sink with exposed plumbing, an old gas stove, and several rickety shelves that couldn’t be trusted. There were two windows in the apartment, both with cracked and distorted frames of glass that gazed one east and the other west. The door—oak, with a dead bolt and chain—was the only this solid about the entire place.
---
He hadn’t thought much of it at first. He’d always had a rather hardy immune system, but he had been known to occasionally catch ill, and he’d simply attributed his nausea to the flu.
But it hadn’t gotten better.
Days turned into weeks, and the weeks eventually became months, and it became harder to deny that horrible conclusion.
He lost his appetite.
---
The first time he tried to kill the thing growing inside his belly, he walked twenty blocks to an apothecary where he was sure no one would recognize him. Hadyn knew what he was looking for—it was hard to not pick up something, growing up with two botanists—Elyse wouldn’t approve; he didn’t think about it—and the scraggily, moth-balled creature behind the counter handed over his requested parcel without fuss.
It was a mixture of Tansy and Silphium, both known to cause abortion, and in the right doses, fatal. He crushed the concoction into a tea, thinking of his aunt with a touch of hysteria.
The cup was emptied in one long pull.
His body betrayed him—vomited up that glorious elixir—another pale stain on the motley carpet.
The thing inside him continued to grow.
---
He was desperate, when he picked up the penknife. The thing inside him had started to push against the walls of his belly; greedy, wretched thing. His attempt at sabotage had only succeeded in causing the thing to leech more of his life away.
A keen blade began to part flesh: Sharp. Brilliant. Hands shaking, slick with blood; it was hard to press any deeper. He choked on snot and tears. Out. He wanted it out.
Too late; his own weakness working against him—passed out before he could finish.
He woke to fire, wracking his limbs with weakness and chills. He lay there in the growing darkness, and dreamt.
He wouldn’t remember his dreams when he woke.
---
Hadyn watched dust motes in the wane light of evening from where he lay on the floor, paw curled around the perceptible bulge of his midsection.
The jagged scar that raged across his belly throbbed in tandem with his heart.
