December

The air feels cold inside her lungs. Everything seems washed out, despite the darkness. She leans back against the building for support. Nearly dropping her phone twice, she wedges it in between her shoulder and cheek, wiping her clammy hands on her coat. It rings through to voicemail and all the air she has been holding inside falls out.

She sits on her floor, the walk home blurry. This wasn't supposed to happen. She writes out a list of options, putting pros and cons next to each. It doesn't seem to help. Pulling herself into bed, she resolves to pack in the morning.

Light finally drifts through the curtains. She booked her tickets some time around 4 a.m. when she had officially given up on sleeping. Her bag is mostly packed too. The search through her phone contacts is fruitless; she had deleted his number weeks ago. A few embarrassing calls later and she has it. It's still early, but there's nothing else on her mind.

The phone call was as uncomfortable as expected. There were a lot of quiet pauses. They agree to meet when she gets back. She will tell him then, in person. Her parents still haven't called back. She gets through to them on the train and tries to explain. Yes, right now. I'll call when I get there. It's the 9:07 a.m. I'll see you later.

She opens a book and reads the same page three times before giving up. The train is quiet and there is nothing to be distracted by. Specific plans hadn't been made for the other end. She will call him from the station.

He is at the platform and she pushes her phone back into her pocket. They talk about nothing in particular, walking round aimlessly. He brings up his new maybe-girlfriend and asks her how she feels about it. She knows it doesn't matter, but congratulates him nonetheless. She tells him quickly in a fumble of words, before she can back out of it completely. Without giving him a chance to respond, she says she doesn't want it. Doesn't think so, anyway. His face doesn't change. She tells him to call later when he has had time to think. Walking away without a response, she doesn't want to wait around and watch the process.

She realises she hasn't called her parents. Evening has crept in and taken over the sky. She is wrapped in a blanket on her bed, staring at the wall. Her mother is on the end of her bed. She isn't sure how long they have been talking. They have covered everything and more, but it still doesn't feel like enough. Every ring puts her on edge. He hasn't called back yet. She hopes he will.

Icy Patches

It's the stupid, small details that will get you in the end. It is the fact that something actually happened two days earlier, and somehow that changes everything. It's the fact that he took her with him on that trip. You just don't get to know these thing anymore. You're not in the loop. 

That's the problem with the small details. They pop up in Twitter feeds and fall out of people's mouths when they aren't looking. But they are so seemingly insignificant that no one else seems to understand when you need to take three deep breaths or walk away. Because suddenly your chest has got a little too tight. There's an ache in your stomach that would need a knife to justify it. And no one understands why those few days make any difference. Maybe you would have acted differently if you had know then. But you didn't know, whether your dates are right or slightly off. You acted the way you did with the information you had at the time and it has past. There is nothing you can do to change it.

It doesn't matter if he took her on that trip too. He could take her or he could not take her and that doesn't change anything. You could know about it or not and that still doesn't change anything. They feel the way they feel and you feel the way you feel and sooner or later you will let the dust settle. It still hurts and you can still feel the black scribbles just below your breast bone. But they will gone by the morning.

You just need to keep reminding yourself one thing: you are moving forward. Sure, details like these are icy patches on the ground; you didn't see them coming and you slipped. Sometimes you catch yourself before you go down and sometimes you don't. Sometimes there's someone there and sometimes there's not. But you are still moving forward. That icy patch and all the others are there but they aren't going to stop you. Maybe they take your breath for a few seconds or maybe they knock you down for a day. But you are going to keep going. And the icy patches will get less. One day there might not be any. But it doesn't matter if they are gone in five months or two years. They aren't going to stop you.  

Real Life

I complain to you that things in real life never happen like they do in films. No one is waiting for me in the pouring rain or throwing pebbles at my window. When we fight, we don't stand and scream with just the right amount of tears. You tell me it's okay. You tell me that sometimes they do. You tell me that even when everything is far too real, it doesn't have to be bad.

A few days later we are sitting on the sofa together. We are talking and laughing about nothing in particular. You have got your feet planted firmly on the ground, and my legs are crossed.

“Put your arms up.” I tell you, and you oblige. You look quizzical, but raise your arms anyway, an aeroplane.

I lean over and wrap my arms around your middle, and yours fall into place around me. I hold tight, not wanting to let go.

“See?” you say, triumphantly, “Sometimes things do happen like they do in films.” 

Spire

The sun had worked hard to summit the buildings. An arduous climb, but the view was something else. The morning had lit up, sending the darkness to crevices of old stone buildings. There was barely a soul in sight; the view from the top of the spire spread for miles. The streets were empty. 

The fine mist left the morning hazy, like old film footage of Edinburgh, not the real thing. One or two people had emerged into the day, slowly moving around in the early morning light. Everything was still; even those who were walking seemed barely to be moving at all. The mist had brought with it a chill. It was the kind of cold that clung to buildings and bus stops and grass.

Cheeks were pink and vision was still blurry; people freshly awake. As they walked through the mist, they left cut-out shapes behind them. Birds were the only ones to make a noise. One might say you could hear a pin drop, but nobody who had to be outside at half past six in the morning was carrying a pin. 

A few more people entered the morning. Still no one seemed to be in a rush; it was as if they were walking in chest-deep water. One man's neck was stiffer than normal; in an effort to loosen it he let his head roll around on his shoulders in a circle. That was the intention, anyway. Before he had managed to complete the circle, something caught his attention. He rubbed his eyes hard with the heels of his hands, convinced that his mind was still thinking in dreams. 

Most days, churches are peaceful. But seemingly not their spires. Rather far down the spire of St. George's West Church was a body. Face to the sky, limbs hanging out, impaled. From the pavement, he could feel his neck getting stiff again, but it didn't matter anymore. Still unsure about what he was staring at, he fished in his jacket pocket for his phone, never letting his eyes leave the spire. 

2:10am (Part Two)

She heard nothing past 'no'. The room began to move around her ever so slightly. She had prepared herself for terrible, and now it seemed things were getting worse. There had been talk earlier in the pregnancy of other complications, but she had been assured that they would sort themselves out. But everything else had gone smoothly and she was healthy, surely that would count for something. 

Before she really knew what was going on, she was being taken somewhere. She had picked out a few words from conversations going on above her. It was something to do with the placenta. The more she tried to listen and understand what was happening to her, the hotter she felt. The world was draining of colour and she could feel a filmy layer of sweat on her forehead.

The doctors left, and James began to slowly explain what was going on. He was holding her hand and brushing hair from her eyes. Something had gone wrong. The placenta was not in the right place, it was close to covering the cervix. She had heard this before, at a scan. They had said everything would readjust during the pregnancy. It would all be fine. She had been due another scan in a day or two. None of that seemed to matter anymore. Things were happening now. 

Slowly things started slotting into place. She couldn't take her mind off the last scan. They had said that if the problem had not corrected itself by this time, she would definitely need a c-section.

She felt the cool gel on her stomach as they scanned her to be sure of the situation. She looked over to the monitor, holding her breath for any confirmation from the doctor.

Caesarian section it was. And it was going to be now.  

2:10am (Part One)

The lights were flickering. She couldn't get the idea out of her head; she was sure. Someone would have replaced the bulb by now, though. Hospitals can't have flickering lights. Hospitals are reliable, things are constant. She readjusted herself in the wheelchair, gently rubbing at her aching abdomen. For once, she was important and relevant and it was for all the wrong reasons. The magazines around her were proving useless. Her thoughts kept coming back to the present. But acknowledge what was happening meant having to think about what would happen next. Granted, she could be wrong about what was going on. But still. She might not be. 

Ten past two in the morning. She was sure that it hadn't been that late when they were in the car. Her eyelids were growing heavy and despite the panic it was becoming harder to keep things in focus. Tired seemed to be a permanent state. She didn't want her suspicions confirmed; if she was drifting then maybe all of this would go away.

The first sign of blood had convinced her. She had almost flushed, but the red caught her eye. She had called James through, vaguely murmuring about the hospital and pointing at the toilet. She was so sure it was a miscarriage. A tiny part of her hoped it was: she wasn't sure she could handle anything worse, whatever that might be. 

The people moving around her were a blur. Although James had not left her side, he hadn't spoken to her since he had started the car. Once they had got there, he had done all the talking. His voice was shaky, but it was there. Hers had curled up in the back of her throat. She couldn't stand the thought that something had died inside her.

There was now only one doctor with them. She looked up near him, avoiding his eyes. He was ready to tell them what was going on. She rubbed her palms on the chair, trying to get rid of the sweat.

"It's a miscarriage, isn't it?" Her voice trembled along with the rest of her body.

"No."

Turbulence

She was sitting alone, waiting as the rain came down harder, glad that she was inside. The sky was slowly growing darker around her. The cold from the metal chair seeped through her trousers and made its way down her legs and up her back. She could feel it in her fingernails and at the roots of her hair. Despite that, her hands were sweating. 

Announcements overhead made her hands damper. She rubbed them on her jeans and inhaled. She held the breath for a while as she looked around at the other people waiting with her. She was in the right place, she was sure. She had checked several times. There was nothing else to do now. 

The silver ring on her finger was cold, despite the sweating. She was twisting it absentmindedly. Her mind kept wandering, in spite of her best efforts to keep it still. She focused her eyes on the departures board. On time. Everything would be fine. 

The turbulence is getting stronger. It's like being on a roller coaster, but this time there's nothing to prevent the fall. Her breathing is getting heavier, she can't help it. She twists the ring round her finger more and more, trying to think on about that. The plane is shaking now, as if a monster has it in it's claws. 

Of course the wedding had to be abroad. It couldn't have been local. The whole situation could have been avoided. She had thought about not going. But family weddings aren't optional. Another deep breath. She pulled the ring off, inspecting the inside. She had never been able to work out what it said. It frustrated her to no end, but had its uses. 

She moved the ring from finger to finger. Her eyes moved to the departures board again. Still on time, boarding. She felt the cold metal slip. Heard the ring hit the floor. She brought her eyes back just in time to see it rolling into the feet of the crowd. 

She got up and started to chase it, though she couldn't tell where it had gone. She walked through the people, angry mumblings following her. She couldn't hear what was being said, there was just a blur of noise. She could feel herself getting hotter and hotter, sweat on her forehead dripping down. 

Final call.