A ragged sob rips through me, my broken body jerking as a result. I’m in agony. “No,” I whimper, my eyes bursting with tears, encouraging more from Jack. “No.” My body begins to spasm uncontrollably, my world exploding into a haze of devastation. “No, no, no!”
Jack shoots up from his chair and bends his body over the bed, getting as close to me as he can to comfort me. “I’m sorry,” he sobs, trying desperately to console me as we cry in each other’s arms. “I’m so sorry.”
I shake my head, not prepared to accept it, hiding my face in his neck. “She killed our baby.”
Jack doesn’t say anything more—no apologies, no attempts to calm me. All he has the energy left to do is hug me and cry his heart out along with me.
The darkness returns, and so does the pain. But now it’s agony. She tried to kill me and she succeeded in killing our baby. This is my penance. For all of the wrong decisions I have made, for touching the forbidden, this is the ultimate punishment.
I will never forgive myself.
Chapter 29
I’ve had so much blood pumped into me, I don’t even think I’m me anymore. I had internal bleeding caused by a splintered rib that nicked a blood vessel. The mass of blood behind my ribs was excruciatingly painful, but once it started to disperse, the pain lessened over the weeks until regular paracetamol sufficed and I could lose my drip. My left arm is broken in three places and three tendons were severed above my wrist. I have a tidy gouge in my thigh, and I’m all kinds of black and blue from scrapes, cuts, and grazes. Quite honestly, I look a royal mess, even six weeks later.
Yet I’d endure this pain forever and happily look like this for the rest of my life if I could change just one thing.
But I can’t. My only comfort is that our baby didn’t suffer like we have.
Stephanie was charged with attempted murder. I didn’t know, but a few neighbors up the street have CCTV cameras installed to the front of their properties and after careful analysis, apparently her intent became clear. The footage of her coming at me with a knife only moments before cemented it for the police.
I chose not to see that footage, but Jack did. I don’t know why he needed to, and I didn’t ask. They also did tests on the car; the speed on impact was estimated to be around 50 mph. I shouldn’t even be alive. Stephanie’s been put on suicide watch while on remand, and her lawyer has appealed for mental assessments. I’ve heard she’s declared a leave of senses. I’m hoping that means she’ll be certified mad and shipped off to a mental institute. I don’t care where they take her, just as long as it’s far, far away from me and Jack.
After my parents got over the shock of the accident, my father ripped into Jack with an anger I’ve never seen before. Jack bowed to his fury, putting up no fight, and not retaliating with any kind of excuses. The guilt that consumes him worries me more each day. He’s here, but he’s not here. He smiles, but behind the smiles there’s a perpetual sadness. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. No one was supposed to suffer this much.
My friends and parents have been in and out of my apartment checking up on me, but their help hasn’t been needed. Jack’s taken compassionate leave from work to be with me, to wait on me hand and foot and fuss over my healing body. I can’t say I don’t like having him around so much after all the time we’ve spent snatching hours here and there to be with each other. But I just wish the circumstances weren’t so tragic. We lost our baby. It’s something neither of us knows how to deal with. All we have is each other; I pray that’s enough.
We’ve watched Top Gun a hundred times and eaten a million Giant Strawbs between us. Jack has taken me to physiotherapy every other day since my cast was removed. In between sessions, I perform the exercises that were given to me, on various hard-backed cards, at least six times a day. Six times! So basically all I’ve been doing are arm exercises, and Jack has made sure of it, sitting with me for twenty minutes each time and doing the movements with me, as well as pulling me up if he thinks I’m not doing it effectively. I’m bored of arm exercises.
Now I’m reclined on my couch, flicking through the channels when Jack wanders in with those damn cards. “Not again,” I sigh, the remote control falling to the cushion with my limp arm. “We just did some.”
“Be quiet,” he scolds me gently, shifting my legs and sitting next to me.
“But it’s much better. Look.” I reclaim the remote control and aim it at the television, ignoring how heavy it feels. “I can do this.”
“Yes, but I want you to be able to do this.” He fists his hand and starts thrusting at midair, mimicking some hand action on an invisible cock. I gape at him, not because it might be inappropriate for him to do that, given where we’re at, but because I see a slight glimmer in his gray eyes that’s been missing for weeks. The corners of his mouth twitch, and I find mine following suit. And then he laughs lightly, the sound acting like the best kind of medicine there could be. I giggle, my head falling back to the cushion. It feels good, another piece of my broken heart slipping back into place.
My grief will never diminish completely, but I have to hope the pain will eventually become bearable enough for me to move forward. I hope Jack is moving in the same direction, too. I drop my head and find he’s smiling. It’s such a stunning sight, and it fills me with hope that with my fading pain comes his fading guilt. “You’re very good at that,” I say, reaching for his hand and squeezing it. “Been getting a lot of practice?”
He flicks through the cards, looking up at me with a raised brow. “Wanking pales by comparison after you’ve had the hand of the woman you love wrapped around your cock,” he replies huskily, winking, expanding my grin.
“Did you just say that?”
“Yep.” He holds the card up and I look, seeing the familiar pictures. “Now focus on this.”
“After you’ve just said something so romantic?”
The full-blown Jack Joseph smile makes an appearance. “Concentrate,” he orders.
Begrudgingly, I look at the card. “Easy,” I claim, starting to clench and unclench my fist, over and over. “Next.”
“This one.” He holds up another card.
“There.” I bend my arm at the elbow on a stifled yawn. “Next.”
“Annie, you need to extend your arm fully.” He reaches over and pulls my arm straight. I hiss, feeling my stiff tendons stretch too much. “Yes, much better,” he quips sarcastically. I scowl. He gives me a warning look. “Are you going to carry on arguing with me?”
I grumble my annoyance and start to bend my arm, slowly this time, stretching it back out as far as I can. “Happy?”
“I’m just trying to help.”
“Help me by taking me out,” I plead, with no hope that he’ll listen. I feel like a prisoner, and aside from my mundane visits to the physiotherapist, Jack’s kept me safe inside wrapped in cotton wool. I’m slowly losing my mind. “Or at least let me in my studio so I can do some work.”