Categories > Original > Romance
But You Can't Be Missed, Bubbles.
Nelson has always been blamed for his mother's death, and his dad makes sure he knows it. But things are getting bad. Putting up with a shitty job, an abusive father, and falling in love with a guy...
?Blocked
You know, I never understood what was so great about child birth. Women usually get excited when they’re thinking of having a baby. A new life will be brought into the world, a beautiful creature that they created all on their own, that they can love and nurture and grow up with.
Well, that’s all a big fat fucking lie.
Nobody can make that kind of promise, and I don’t know why anyone would think positively about something like that before they knew what they were really getting into.
I watched as my mom waved to the unsteady camera, her long blonde hair matted down with sweat as they wheeled her into the emergency room. Despite her being in what was probably the worst pain of her life, she was wearing the biggest smile on her face. She held one of her arms around her round belly protectively, while my dad held onto her other hand and ran with the camera.
“We’re doing it, Vick!” she said, “This baby is going to be the answer to our prayers.”
While my dad made a laugh that sounded as terrified as it did joyful and squeezed my mom’s hand tightly, I frowned at the screen. The answer to whose prayers, my non-existent mother or the father who hates me?
My mom’s eyes twinkled, but then she bent over her stomach and let out a low pained moan. While the emergency paramedics quickly called for a doctor, my dad quickly lowered the camera so that the lens was directed to the floor and all I could hear was my mother’s loud ragged breathing and the beeping and whirring of hospital machines. The black and white tiled floors were something I’d seen so many times that I knew there were exactly twenty-two grey speckles.
My father’s soothing voice cut in, “Breathe honey, it’ll be okay. Just think of our new baby, he’s going to be just as beautiful as you are.”
It was odd, really. However many times I’d seen this video, I’ve never heard him sound like that, so caring and –and human. It was almost as if I was listening to another person’s voice entirely.
The screen blacked out, races of white lines cutting across before a new image showed up. This time my mom was screaming, loud and howling. A doctor was bending over the edge of the bed, where my mother’s ankles were fixed in metal stirrups.
“That’s it, Jodie. Keep pushing! You’re doing great!” the doctor said happily, looking at my mom’s distressed face over the rims of his glasses. His wrinkled eyes swivelled to the camera for a moment, before returning to my mom. Her cheeks were beet red.
My dad was still holding her hand, knuckles white from the force of the grip. The heart monitor was beeping steadily, and nurses in blue scrubs were watching with encouraging eyes. I’d heard and seen it so many times, that constant noise (Beep, beep, beep.) and the way my mom’s eyes were shut tightly.
Then the doctor’s voice brought my attention back, “The head’s coming out! Push one more time Jodie! You’re almost there!”
My mother let out one final earth shattering scream, fingers flexing in my dad’s so much I could almost hear the bones crunching. A squealing cry gurgled out, and the elderly doctor lifted me up. The nurses surrounding the bed swarmed in. They snipped off the umbilical cord and then one of the nurses, the one with the brown pony tail and the bright green eyes wrapped me up in a blanket. Everyone’s attention was on the cute little baby.
Nobody noticed until the camera clattered to the floor, a flash of my mom’s pale face flashing through my memory.
Then I hear my dad’s shrill cry laced with panic, “JODIE!”
The sickening sound of the heart monitor and the continuous noise, (Beeeeeeeep.) it makes me feel sick each time. I wonder why I continue to watch it. I already know what happens next by heart.
The doctors and scrub nurses feet rush around frantically, one, two, three plastic covered shoes passing by the screen. I hear my dad yelling, his voice angry when the nurses try to pry him away from the room.
“Mr. Wells, please. Let the doctors take care of her. There’s nothing you can do.” a woman who I’ve heard so many times before, her voice velvety soft with comfort. It’s the way you would talk if you were trying to calm down a crazy.
“No! Let me go! That’s my fucking wife! Jodie! I need –I –GET THE FUCK OFF ME!”
The nurses are relentless; I can literally hear my dad struggling against them. I wait for it –what’s coming up next, I know what it is-but the sound of the key jiggling in the door has me rocketing off the couch and scrambling to shut off the television.
I’m too late.
My dad comes in the door and I freeze. His suitcases make a hollow thump as they hit the floor.
He’s in his work clothes, stained in car oils and ripped in the shoulder, but I’m not paying attention to that. I’m too busy looking at his face.
“What.” he says, breathing loudly, “Are you doing?”
My eyes are wide. The sounds of muffled sobbing echo from the television, but oddly enough I can still hear my heart pounding.
I can’t move.
He looks furious.
“Well?” he demands, eyes livid.
I look at his hands; they’re curled into angry fists, shaking. I swallow. I know what can happen if I don’t answer the way he wants me to. Then again, I’ve probably already screwed up whatever chances I’d had at having him not mad at me today.
“I –I was...” I swallow again. What was I thinking? “I wanted to see-“
My dad’s eyes narrow. “See? You wanted to see?”
I lick my lips and try not to shrink under his gaze. I know what he’s thinking, and I can’t see this ending well. The sobbing continues in the background, but I know it’s going to cut out soon. I know it will.
“Dad,” my voice cracks, "I’m sor-“
He charges in on me and I stop. He’s looming over me now, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop my trembles.
“You betterbe fucking sorry!” he roars, and that’s all the warning I get before he’s grabbing the neck of my t-shirt in one hand and raising his large fist.
I’m still frozen on spot. My pulse is throbbing in my ears. What I hate about this is, no matter how many times this happens, I’m always so fucking terrified.
When the first punch comes, it’s like electric fire is cleaving my face in two. The first one always hurts, and immediately I recoil. My eyes start watering, and I can feel the imprint from his golden wedding band across my cheek.
My eyes are still closed. He’d told me once before not to look at him with them. They’re a mix of green and gold, just like mom’s were.
My dad lets go of my shirt. “You’re lucky this time.”
He leaves the room, and I’m sure he does, because I hear him slam the door to the balcony on his way out.
I breathe out through my mouth, and gingerly inspect the damage. My eye is already starting to swell, so I force myself to go into the kitchen and take an icepack out of the freezer. He’s right. I was lucky this time. It could’ve been way worse.
When I look at the screen on my way to my room, white lines stream across. It’s silent, but I can still hear that tape.
Well, that’s all a big fat fucking lie.
Nobody can make that kind of promise, and I don’t know why anyone would think positively about something like that before they knew what they were really getting into.
I watched as my mom waved to the unsteady camera, her long blonde hair matted down with sweat as they wheeled her into the emergency room. Despite her being in what was probably the worst pain of her life, she was wearing the biggest smile on her face. She held one of her arms around her round belly protectively, while my dad held onto her other hand and ran with the camera.
“We’re doing it, Vick!” she said, “This baby is going to be the answer to our prayers.”
While my dad made a laugh that sounded as terrified as it did joyful and squeezed my mom’s hand tightly, I frowned at the screen. The answer to whose prayers, my non-existent mother or the father who hates me?
My mom’s eyes twinkled, but then she bent over her stomach and let out a low pained moan. While the emergency paramedics quickly called for a doctor, my dad quickly lowered the camera so that the lens was directed to the floor and all I could hear was my mother’s loud ragged breathing and the beeping and whirring of hospital machines. The black and white tiled floors were something I’d seen so many times that I knew there were exactly twenty-two grey speckles.
My father’s soothing voice cut in, “Breathe honey, it’ll be okay. Just think of our new baby, he’s going to be just as beautiful as you are.”
It was odd, really. However many times I’d seen this video, I’ve never heard him sound like that, so caring and –and human. It was almost as if I was listening to another person’s voice entirely.
The screen blacked out, races of white lines cutting across before a new image showed up. This time my mom was screaming, loud and howling. A doctor was bending over the edge of the bed, where my mother’s ankles were fixed in metal stirrups.
“That’s it, Jodie. Keep pushing! You’re doing great!” the doctor said happily, looking at my mom’s distressed face over the rims of his glasses. His wrinkled eyes swivelled to the camera for a moment, before returning to my mom. Her cheeks were beet red.
My dad was still holding her hand, knuckles white from the force of the grip. The heart monitor was beeping steadily, and nurses in blue scrubs were watching with encouraging eyes. I’d heard and seen it so many times, that constant noise (Beep, beep, beep.) and the way my mom’s eyes were shut tightly.
Then the doctor’s voice brought my attention back, “The head’s coming out! Push one more time Jodie! You’re almost there!”
My mother let out one final earth shattering scream, fingers flexing in my dad’s so much I could almost hear the bones crunching. A squealing cry gurgled out, and the elderly doctor lifted me up. The nurses surrounding the bed swarmed in. They snipped off the umbilical cord and then one of the nurses, the one with the brown pony tail and the bright green eyes wrapped me up in a blanket. Everyone’s attention was on the cute little baby.
Nobody noticed until the camera clattered to the floor, a flash of my mom’s pale face flashing through my memory.
Then I hear my dad’s shrill cry laced with panic, “JODIE!”
The sickening sound of the heart monitor and the continuous noise, (Beeeeeeeep.) it makes me feel sick each time. I wonder why I continue to watch it. I already know what happens next by heart.
The doctors and scrub nurses feet rush around frantically, one, two, three plastic covered shoes passing by the screen. I hear my dad yelling, his voice angry when the nurses try to pry him away from the room.
“Mr. Wells, please. Let the doctors take care of her. There’s nothing you can do.” a woman who I’ve heard so many times before, her voice velvety soft with comfort. It’s the way you would talk if you were trying to calm down a crazy.
“No! Let me go! That’s my fucking wife! Jodie! I need –I –GET THE FUCK OFF ME!”
The nurses are relentless; I can literally hear my dad struggling against them. I wait for it –what’s coming up next, I know what it is-but the sound of the key jiggling in the door has me rocketing off the couch and scrambling to shut off the television.
I’m too late.
My dad comes in the door and I freeze. His suitcases make a hollow thump as they hit the floor.
He’s in his work clothes, stained in car oils and ripped in the shoulder, but I’m not paying attention to that. I’m too busy looking at his face.
“What.” he says, breathing loudly, “Are you doing?”
My eyes are wide. The sounds of muffled sobbing echo from the television, but oddly enough I can still hear my heart pounding.
I can’t move.
He looks furious.
“Well?” he demands, eyes livid.
I look at his hands; they’re curled into angry fists, shaking. I swallow. I know what can happen if I don’t answer the way he wants me to. Then again, I’ve probably already screwed up whatever chances I’d had at having him not mad at me today.
“I –I was...” I swallow again. What was I thinking? “I wanted to see-“
My dad’s eyes narrow. “See? You wanted to see?”
I lick my lips and try not to shrink under his gaze. I know what he’s thinking, and I can’t see this ending well. The sobbing continues in the background, but I know it’s going to cut out soon. I know it will.
“Dad,” my voice cracks, "I’m sor-“
He charges in on me and I stop. He’s looming over me now, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop my trembles.
“You betterbe fucking sorry!” he roars, and that’s all the warning I get before he’s grabbing the neck of my t-shirt in one hand and raising his large fist.
I’m still frozen on spot. My pulse is throbbing in my ears. What I hate about this is, no matter how many times this happens, I’m always so fucking terrified.
When the first punch comes, it’s like electric fire is cleaving my face in two. The first one always hurts, and immediately I recoil. My eyes start watering, and I can feel the imprint from his golden wedding band across my cheek.
My eyes are still closed. He’d told me once before not to look at him with them. They’re a mix of green and gold, just like mom’s were.
My dad lets go of my shirt. “You’re lucky this time.”
He leaves the room, and I’m sure he does, because I hear him slam the door to the balcony on his way out.
I breathe out through my mouth, and gingerly inspect the damage. My eye is already starting to swell, so I force myself to go into the kitchen and take an icepack out of the freezer. He’s right. I was lucky this time. It could’ve been way worse.
When I look at the screen on my way to my room, white lines stream across. It’s silent, but I can still hear that tape.
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