Page 71 of Hunted to the Altar
For the child who would have been born into a life of hiding and violence, born into a war that neither side knew how to end. Born into my trauma. Samuel’s obsession. The danger that followed me like a second skin.
I don’t know if I believe in God. But tonight, I thank someone for taking them before they had to know this pain. Before they had to look me in the eyes and wonder why I never smiled right. Why I flinched at kindness. Why their father paced like a predator and loved like a weapon.
Maybe this was the kindest thing the universe could offer me. A clean break. A breathless mercy.
And that truth breaks me more than the loss ever could.
I wipe my eyes. One tear. Just one.
No one will ever see it fall.
I don’t know how long I sit in the dark before the memory comes.
It’s not dramatic. Not loud. Just a moment—quiet and barely there. I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth. The mint turned my stomach. I gagged so hard I dropped the brush in the sink and stared at the mirror like it had betrayed me. My skin looked strange. My eyes too tired. My body too still.
I knew, right then. Before the test. Before the symptoms. I just... knew.
And for a second—just one—I let myself feel it.
Hope.
I’d placed a hand on my stomach and whispered, "Not now. Please. Not now." But a corner of my heart had already started carving space. I imagined a heartbeat. A name. A reason.
And now it’s gone.
Later, after Samuel disappears into another room, I sit alone in the bathroom, knees pressed to the cold tile. The mirror doesn’t show me anything I recognize. Just swollen eyes. Smudged mascara. A woman trying not to fall apart.
I finally let it happen.
The tears come slowly, burning tracks down my cheeks. There’s no sobbing. No wailing. Just a quiet, brutal unraveling. My body hiccups through the grief in sharp, shallow stabs. I press a towel to my mouth so no one hears me break.
This is the part no one prepares you for.
Not the blood. Not the emptiness.
The silence after.
The quiet in your ribcage where something once lived.
Back in the bedroom, I take off the hospital bracelet.
It resists—snagging against my skin like it doesn’t want to let go. The plastic creaks. I pause. Think about ripping it. Tossing it. Burning it.
But instead, I fold it.
Place it in the back of the drawer. Beneath the socks I never wear.
I don’t know why.
Maybe I need to remember that this happened.
Maybe I need proof that I felt something real.
Even if it didn’t last.
Even if I wasn’t allowed to keep it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
