Writing's been tucked away for a while, been really dry and whatnot. I had this idea and just wrote this up, I have a feeling I'll revisit this someday and rewrite the entire thing. It's glitchy and vague at times but I still like the underlying idea. I'll give this another shot sometime, perhaps, perhaps.

Stitched Together Numb

The child had saved her life.

That alone could be the truest statement, although it was an entirely blunt one that was never to be spoken around her. It had happened so suddenly to Eileen she had barely time to react before the blood trickled down her thighs and the mugger had run off with her purse. If she hadn't screamed like she did she might've, just might've bled out, the doctors told her; she was lucky people had heard and rushed to the sound of her voice.

The child had saved her life, though what part of her life no one was quite sure.

Henry had little to say. He looked pale and stricken, uneasy while he was quiet and hoarse when he whispered soft words to her, to keep her awake and sane. It was his duty, or rather his curse, to answer her questions when she first came around. She asked him everything; if they had caught the mugger, if the cards were canceled or her purse found, if the baby was safe.

He couldn't bear to give the last answer, opting to squeeze her hand tighter and swallow the hard lump in his throat.

The doctor said the rest, explained to her the wreck her womb had become.

Eileen delved into ugly despair. Haunting wraiths and demons kept her in hysterics, plaguing her sleep with nightmares and violence. Henry clung to her side out of sheer worry, petting her matted hair back and quieting her tears the best he could, but what could he do? She was devastated, felt as though she had betrayed everyone, including him even though he did his best to try and turn her around. It was a disaster. The doctors didn't listen.

Against the protests in his head she was sent home with him only days later; him a ragged, pale ghost with heavy bags under his eyes and her a trembling breath of a woman. He assured her things will be alright. She heard. She listened, and wept quieter each time he told her. Eileen wasn't better, not by a long shot, but he thought, he trusted, he believed she was slowly crawling back to him.

His hopes were crushed the morning he nearly broke the bathroom door on its hinges upon hearing Eileen's pained, shameful sobs. There she was, splayed on the linoleum, blood puddling beneath her. Her fingers were cut and red; she had tried to rip the stitches out of her abdomen.

Henry rushed to her side, fighting against her, grabbing her wrists so she wouldn't pull at the black wire anymore, pinning her in an awkward position against the toilet and beneath the sink. She was sobbing. He was too.

"Eileen," he choked, staring at the mess of stitches and blood just above the tufts of her pubic hair. She screamed and cried, apologizing and slipping over her words as she tried to free her hands from his grasp. He pushed her wrists behind her, pressing his warm body close as tears traced his chin.

"Eileen I love you, I still do,"

"He let me live," Eileen sobbed and writhed, "He did, he did, he wanted me to live,"

"He's dead, Eileen."

"He killed your baby, and he let me live,"

"Eileen"

"He killed your baby, Henry!"

Henry moved his hand down to the torn stitches on her abdomen. Eileen inhaled sharply, shivering pathetically.

"Let me call the hospital. It's okay, Eileen."

"He killed your baby," she shuddered and ducked her head away.

"Walter's dead, Eileen." Henry whispered, pressing the bridge of his nose against her hair and sighing deeply, wrought with agony.

"So am I."

Henry's broad shoulders shook at her words. Biting through tears, he barely conjured up enough breath to answer.

"I know."