Page 3 of Saber's Surrender

In my mind, I knew that they were a brotherhood who always had the other’s back, dysfunctional or otherwise, nonetheless, the way they band around one another is awe inspiring and I didn’t expect to like them or even come to care for them. But they’ve wormed their way into my heart—well, all but one of them has.

Even though Saber’s anger and hatred for me holds some merit, he doesn't need to be downright cruel. If anything, I should be the one holding a grudge considering he tossed a few of my belongings into a tote bag and tussled me up like he was a roper in the rodeo before tossing me into the back of a van.

When we got to our designation, he finally untied me and unbound my mouth from its handkerchief binding, then sat there and listened as I resigned from my job and called in the lease to my apartment.

The only light during that dark time was that the club paid for my early termination fees, made sure I didn’t have a bad standing at the hospital in case the day ever comes when I can return to my life and resume my authoritative position as the head pediatric surgeon and preterm births doctor, and sent the prospects to pack up my belongings and truck them to me.

But that was the only good thing Saber did for me. After that, he all but threw me into a jail cell, no matter how nice and spacious the room was, and I didn’t see him, or anyone, again until it was mealtime. Then, he shoved a tray into the room and shut and locked the door before I saw him again the following day.

“At least it had an ensuite,” I mumble to myself as I plop on my bed. As his harsh words reverberate through my mind, I curl into a ball and cry myself to sleep.

“I’d rather die serving my country than finish school and have to look at you for the next few years,” Weston spat as he watched our newborn being wheeled from the room.

Tears steadily dripped down my face as his words penetrated the fog. “Don’t join on account of me, I can transfer schools. I only came here because that’s where we decided as a couple that we wanted to go.”

Every time he tried to get me to look at our baby, I turned the other direction. He thinks this is easy for me, but it’s the hardest damn thing I’ve ever done in my life. But at least I know our son will be loved and given everything neither of us can currently provide for him.

From what the social worker told me when she looked over their dossier, this couple has been trying for ten years to have a baby of their own and have been unsuccessful. After they all but gave up, they went the adoption route only to have lost not one, but two babies due to the mother changing her mind at the last minute. I can’t even begin to understand their heartbreak and devastation due to that happening to them.

When I read their portfolio, I knew they were the right people to raise our boy. He’s a music teacher at the high school and she’s a civil rights advocate and attorney. Their careers called to my soul and I knew that no matter what challenges my son faces, he’ll have good, honorable people at his back to help him see it through.

“Don’t bother. Not on my account, I’ll be shipping off next week for boot camp. At least there, I’ll be able to continue my education and still be able to accomplish my dream of being a doctor.

“Weston,” I sobbed, hands firmly planted over my face. “Please.”

“Please what, Foxy? Please stay and help you raise our son? Please stay and continue this farce of a relationship? Did anything we plan for ourselves mean anything to you because from where I’m standing, they didn’t mean jack shit!”

Choking on my spit, I started saying, “I know you’re angry?—”

“Angry,” he spat out. “I’m not angry, Foxy. Not anymore. I’m furious, I’m disgusted, and I’m wishing I’d never met you.”

“Go,” I whispered, knowing that once he sat his mind on something, there’d be no stopping him. One day, when he’s clear headed and thinking more rationally, we can work past this. I have to believe that because he’s been my everything since before I can remember. It’s always been him and me against the world.

“Bye, Foxy Roxy,” he despondently muttered as he grabbed his hat from the chair, plopped it on his head and walked away without looking back.

“Bye, Weston. I love you.” Feeling rejected, I lose myself into a pit of depression that lasts several years.

I jolt awake, sweat dripping from every pore as I am accosted with a live stream of never-ending reels dictating the years of depression I suffered through.

Each day was a struggle.

It took every ounce of willpower to live a normal life—even if it was delusive. It hurt, everything hurt.

I couldn’t focus.

I hated myself with each passing moment and my concentration was set on remembering how to survive and the things necessary to accomplish that.

How to breathe.

How to bathe.

Remembering to dress.

I compelled myself to simply exist.

I eventually sought out a therapist who specializes in helping those who’ve placed their babies up for adoption and harbor a lot of grief from that decision. It wasn’t until I hit an all-time low that I realized I needed help. When I found myself hovering over the edge of the science department building, I knew that if I didn’t do something about it and the state I was in, that it’d eventually take me.

Looking over at the alarm clock on my bedside table I realize that I’ve slept for a few hours and I can’t afford to sit here and go down this dark path any longer. I have to finish up Naveah’s chart and wrap up a few things before I can call it a night.

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