| Subject: Chapter 283 - Part 1 (16 and above) |
Author:
KatherineG.
|
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
Date Posted: Wednesday, April 11, 07:15:41am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark continued (273>)" on Monday, March 05, 07:03:06am
Extra warning: I'm rating this 16 and above for mild bad language.
Dreams in the Dark (283/?)
by Katherine Gilbert
It had, by any standards, been a long few weeks. Between threats and near-accidents, house calls from Hedda, and silence from her husband, she was weary in body and soul, her mind exhausted from always having to peer around the next corner. Perhaps she was being as well looked after as possible by her many protectors, but she still felt like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. There was only so much time away from her husband that she could stand, before she started to go mad.
This was the situation poor Nikita had been in for sometime, the "accidents" she had endured two weeks ago only adding to her constant weariness. Fortunately, there had been none since then, Andrew's intervention perhaps making her enemies cautious. Or perhaps not. There was always the possibility that they were just planning something far more deadly than before.
This was the fear she now constantly faced, the worry she could never quite get past. She wasn't helped any by how interminable her pregnancy seemed. Here she was at--5 1/2? 6 1/2? months, she still wasn't sure--and she was beginning to feel like she had carried this child for a year or more. Perhaps it was just the lingering loneliness she endured without her husband; she did suspect that the time wouldn't have been half so bad, had he been near her. But she was beginning to wonder whether there would ever be a happy ending to this pregnancy.
She was on her couch at home, as she pondered this now, her head lying back against the pillows--her only relief being that she was finally almost alone. It was partly the "accidents" at the studio which had made her feel so exhausted, she knew, their intention of making her miscarry--if they didn't just succeed in killing her--quite obvious; her mind turned. That she had gotten lucky enough to have been able to avoid the studio infirmary still amazed her--but she supposed that her grandmother had a trick or two up her sleeve yet.
This truth brought a smile to her lips, for the first time that day. It was nice that she was being so, generally, well protected, was incredibly kind of so many people to go out of their way to look after her. She was certainly grateful. Still, it was tiring to always be the object of somebody's plot, brought on a level of mental exhaustion to have to be so constantly on guard that she hadn't had to endure even in her mother's house. At least in her childhood, she had understood which direction the threats were likely to come from--either her mother's delusional rages or her mother's boyfriends' less-than-tender intentions where all her concentration needed to lie. But lately, there was no end to the places she had to look for possible threats; her sigh went deep. And that truth was the one which was making her so incredibly bone-tired of late.
She was sure that this was the major part of her exhaustion, at least--although she also suspected that her pregnancy wasn't helping. Her body needed so much more attention these days, more than she was either used to giving it or had the opportunity to try to. The morning sickness--an inappropriate name, she had thought more than once, given that it could come at any time of the day or night--still showed up from time to time, mostly when she had been riding in the car to or from the studio; this child, for all his now-constant activity within her, just didn't seem to like travel. And, these moments aside, she was nearly constantly hungry and dehydrated--facts which her current, constant caution at the studio didn't help at all. True, Annie looked after her well enough at home--she had just finished yet another, very large, nutritious meal the woman had cooked for her, had probably her hundredth glass of water on the coffee table in front of her--but it just didn't seem to be enough. She seemed to be both losing weight and gaining it at the same time--her stomach and breasts making up for the dearth the rest of her now saw. It was as though all the nutrition she could gain went straight to the parts which were growing for her child. But the rest of her . . .
She knew that her face was looking drawn lately, could see the thinness in her arms. It worried her. Still, the doctor her grandmother had chosen said that she was healthy enough, that the baby was fine; little Adrian did another half-flip to punctuate the idea, making her smile down toward her ample abdomen, her hand rubbing against it. She did hope that that would continue until his birth.
Her head hung back against the sofa again at this thought, even as her hand rubbed over her child half-consciously--wondering when this happy event would ever occur. Of course, she knew that, at best, she still had at least two and a half months left to go--could have as much as three and a half. But the days of worry at the studio, the emptiness of her life without her husband outside of it, wore on her. Carrying around a child she could only *hope* that her husband would ever see sometimes seemed almost too great a weight for her to bear.
This fact reigned, as much as she loved her child, as dearly as she prayed that she, her husband, and son would all be together soon to be a family. Aside from the studio, which was bad enough, there had been a bit more saber-rattling from her father this past week. Twice, he had sent the dreadful Enquist to the lot, had even tried to get her to let the man guide her home. She was almost afraid that he would try something with Hedda--which would really spell disaster. She was just relieved that her father generally spent far too much time trying to avoid the spotlight to be willing to deal with people such as the columnist.
Still, this was one of the only comforting facts she had of late; her eyes closed, hand on her abdomen, almost too tired to head off to bed--not even wanting to think about it anymore. Perhaps she was just waiting for the mail to be checked; she heard Fredericks close the door behind him and felt her heart jump--praying. It had been two weeks since she had sent her last letter to her husband. Maybe if she just hoped hard enough . . .
[
Next Thread |
Previous Thread |
Next Message |
Previous Message
]
| |
Feedback: 