Page 64 of Julian's Curse

It seemed that he was confident Sophie could make it through the transport. Still watching that they got her out safely, I flung myself into Julian’s arms, the flood of relief crashing over me like a wave.

“Baby,” he repeated, his voice steady but tinged with concern. His warmth surrounded me, the powerful, unyielding presence of him anchoring me in the disarray. Julian’s tall frame felt like a fortress, his muscles firm beneath his tailored jacket offering something to lean on.

A man, who also seemed to be part of the medic’s group, approached us.

“I am fine,” I assured him. “I just need a moment with Julian.”

I searched his eyes, trying to find the courage to speak the words that had been tearing at me. I couldn’t keep this secret any longer. The medic understood and gave us a moment of privacy.

“Julian,” I said, my voice a whisper, thick with emotion. “I think I am having a miscarriage.” I blurted, and his eyes instantly flashed with pain.

It wasn’t unusual of me these days to end up in a hospital bed. The sound of beeping machines surrounded me and filled the sterile air. Despite the blanket draped over me, the room was unbearably cold, the chill seeping into my bones. Albeit Julian’s pleas, the ER wouldn’t allow him to come into the exam room. So, I knew he was pacing around in the waiting room, drawing glances.

The wait felt like forever. I made a clumsy attempt to reach for the bag with a new temporary phone, but my hand couldn’t quite stretch far enough due to the IV in my arm. I still couldn’t believe it. Jess, the girl who’d worked at our office, the one I’d trusted, had gone so far as to try to commit two cold-blooded murders.

The nurse popped in: “Honey, do you need anything?”

I shook my head.

“Let me bring you a warm blanket,” she suggested caringly, then disappeared again.

My mind suddenly drifted to Sophie. Would she be okay in the end? The evidence that she could recover was strong—her heart had started beating again, however faintly, and they’d been able to stabilize her. But would it be enough?

The curtain opened once again, and the nurse stepped in with a soft smile. “Here,” she said, placing a blanket gently over my legs. The warmth of the fabric spread across my body, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I allowed myself to relax. It felt good to not have to do anything, to just be cared for.

“What are you here for?” She queried.

I guessed she’d just come in for a new shift and wasn’t up to date. “A likely miscarriage.” Acknowledging it made it more real—more final.

“They’re trying to get you in for an ultrasound, and we’re waiting for the bloodwork,” she informed me gently. “I am sure this is hard on you.” She sent me an empathetic glance.

I could feel the tears welling up, but I fought them back. I wanted to stay strong, at least for a moment longer. “You know, it feels... definite,” I whispered, my voice breaking. I felt the lump in my throat growing, threatening to choke me.

The nurse paused for a moment, then asked quietly, “How old are you?”

“26,” I muttered, feeling the weight of the number. I was approaching 27, the age when people often went through major transformations. as 27 was infamous for the “27 Club.”

“Imagine, my friends these days are having kids in their early 40s, and it’s gone without any problems.” She tried to offer comfort. “If it doesn’t work out now, it will in the future.” She attempted to comfort me. “You have plenty of time.”

But I’d grown so attached to my baby that I wantedthisparticular one. It wasn’t just the idea of motherhood—it was theconnection, the bond that felt so real, as if I could feel their love from within me. It was hard to explain, but it kept me going. The baby had become my anchor through Julian’s rehab. I spoke to it in the darkest moment of my life when I was starting to feel like it would be one of the last things I’d do before my own death. While everything else seemed to be falling apart, this little life inside me was the one thing that gave me clarity, purpose. It was painful to feel it now dripping out of me, literally.

When the nurse disappeared again, I sat there for just a little longer. By now, it had to be around 3 AM in the morning because I was bone-weary, yet not ready to sleep because I needed to have answers. Soon, a young male nurse slid the curtains open, and then rolled up a wheelchair. Without hesitation, he guided it toward me, his expression neutral but kind. “Having a bad day?” He queried me while he rolled me through the sterile corridors.

“Something like that,” I responded meekly.

“It’s all about the attitude, isn’t it?” He tried to cheer me up.

They said that time healed all wounds, but this was just a bunch of bullshit.

We arrived at the ultrasound room, where an older woman with a thick accent instructed me to lie down next to the machine. She closed the door behind us as I bared my stomach.

“What brings you here?” She queried.

“Bleeding,” I let her know. “In pregnancy,” I clarified.

“How far along?” Even though she’d appeared stoic, I sensed a hint of empathy.

“Around six weeks,” I guessed, though I was less certain now than I had been before. Planned Parenthood had put me somewhere around five weeks and three days, so I added a few extra days to give her an accurate estimate.

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