'Angst Week 2015'

Disclaimer: I do NOT own GH.

Prompt 01: Children

Word Count: 542

'And for the only time in his entire lifespan, he allowed himself to cry…'

On twenty-fifth of July, three months after their third wedding anniversary, he realized that their marriage had fallen into a pattern, a routine that started with him looking into his wife's eyes, seeing the self-loathing lurking in there and ended with the same visual.

He hated it. With a fierceness that surprised even him.

For a man who had lived his life surrounded by numbers and words and technicalities that comforted him, he found the pattern to be sickening. Long gone was the comfort behind a predictability, the assurance behind knowing that things - life - could be generalized.

His life was so orderly now that he wanted to disrupt it, shake the foundations, anything to tear its monotony apart.

"I'm sorry…"

It was just the same as the other mornings, she would wake up with that empty look on her face and he would try not to show how much it bothered him.

He would turn to her, slowly. Taking the time to blend his expression into one of complete indifference.

"It's not your fault." He would stare deep into her eyes, trying to convince her of the fact. "You know that."

And she would smile. Not in that breathtaking way that had first captured his attention and spun it all around that one, striking expression.

No.

This one would be wan. A wry tip of her mouth. A resignation.

And he hated it. Hated seeing it there. Wanted to wipe it off her face. Wanted to -

But he wouldn't do any of that, of course. He would hide it all, every single emotion, every thought behind the facade he'd perfected and would turn away from her. The image of her, grim, depressed, a shell of the woman she used to be.

Sometimes he wondered how in the name of hell, could she be a goddamn psychologist when she couldn't even handle herself. When she could let herself even believe the fact that she was responsible for it. That it had all been her fault.

He would stare at himself in the mirror. The reflection haunting him, taunting him with the knowledge that it had been him who had been responsible for this mess. That he had been a lousy husband. That his nonchalance had done this. She deserved better. Better than him.

So the report would mock him. From its place on the table, open for all the world to read what had caused this mess in the first place.

A lost child.

A dead child. A being he'd known for about a minute, a being he'd barely touched, barely seen.

But that day, the sixtieth day of their silent mourning to be precise, his wife did not apologize. Did not even look up at him with the fresh grief etched over her face.

Instead, she stared up at him. A memory in her eyes. The wan smile in place.

"He looked so much like you."

He paused in his routine. Slowly raising his head to look at his wife.

"So much like you. Martin."

And for the only time in his entire lifespan, Martin Davis allowed himself to cry.

A/N: And while I don't know the difference between angst and depression, I rather took a blend of them and produced this! Why this story means so much to me is because I lost twin brothers (yeah, irony); they died after about minutes of being born in this world. And they looked like me. So, here you have a platter of angst, folks. Review!

-borntoflyhigh-