Page 103 of Devil's Dilemma

Melissa

There are times when a woman needs her mom, whatever age she is. Especially with things only another woman can understand, even if they haven’t been there themselves.

I know there’s a chance any pregnancy might not go to term, it’s the fear of any woman carrying a baby. A fear my mother would have had at the back of her mind when I was inside her. That the worst didn’t happen to her doesn’t affect her ability to comprehend exactly how I’m feeling.

Grief, first and foremost. Sorrow I won’t get to know my son or hold him in my arms. Misery that my body’s now empty. The difficulty of coming to terms with my loss, wondering how or if I’ll ever be able to accept it.

Guilt, that it was my fault. Was it that too hot shower followed by the cold? Maybe that I’d travelled when pregnant? Or, was it that my reaction to Skull turning up had been overdramatic?

Anger. Rage. That Skull caused me to miscarry his baby.

When Pyro and my dad had disappeared, the doctor had returned, but provided no answers to my questions. It might be my first miscarriage, but certainly not his. It can happen with no reason, he told me. If I miscarry again, maybe then they’ll look for a cause.

“Sometimes it just happens,” Mom tells me reasonably after he’s gone.

But I’m in no state of mind to believe that. There is a reason. If Skull hadn’t reappeared, I’d still be carrying my baby.

I swing between despair and rage as I wait to be discharged. Pyro’s being as supportive as he can, but I can see he’s trying hard not to say the wrong thing, opening his mouth as though wanting to speak, then second guessing himself and shutting it again. In my more rationale moments I know he’ll be hurting too, he’s lost a son the same as I have. Yet, I can’t help being selfish, wanting all the misery myself and not being able to share his.

He’s been talking in whispers with my dad. Under other circumstances I’d be pleased at how they’re getting along, now I’m suspicious as to what they’re so animatedly discussing.

I veer between wanting Pyro close at hand and wanting nothing to do with him. My head’s muddling everything up. If I’d never been drawn into the club, I wouldn’t have stayed with Skull. But how can I hate people for being nice and accepting me? Everything in my head is fucked up.

Mom’s patient, but my swiftly changing moods are trying her parenting skills. If she tries platitudes I end up frustrated, if she encourages my anger, I swiftly change it to guilt, and if she tries to tell me I’m not responsible for killing my baby, I tell her all the reasons why I am.

I’m a complete mess.

Two days back at the club and I’m feeling no easier. Even though I’m not really ill, I’ve spent most of the time up in the room we’d been allocated when we first arrived in Vegas. I wish I wasn’t in an alien place, would much rather be in my own home, but due to the bleeding that’s still continuing, Pyro and my parents don’t want me to fly.

“Hey, Mel.” Pyro stands, hesitantly in the doorway.

Well, he’s just heard me dismissing my mom and not very pleasantly, I’ve no doubt his cautious approach is him questioning my mood right now.

I sigh. “It’s okay, come in.” What’s unfair is that Pyro and I had been so close to cementing our relationship until Skull stepped in and blew that away.

What’s he going to say now?I’m fed up with people asking me how I’m feeling, as I don’t know. I could tell them the truth, then only a moment later, find out that had been a lie, as I’m now feeling something else.

But he surprises me. He stands just inside the door, not coming right in. “Mel, will you come with me?”

“Where?”

He shakes his head. “Trust me, okay?”

Go with him? I notice my parents are standing behind him. Dad looks serious, mom’s expression holds a mixture of grief and oddly, anticipation. She’s also nodding encouragingly.

Downstairs, it gets even stranger. Leather clad men are milling around, on seeing me, they fall silent, then start walking out the front door.

“What’s going on?” I ask, looking around. Then my eyes fall on a tiny coffin, resting on a black cloth on a table.

I gasp, my hands covering my face. Feeling guilty I hadn’t asked what had happened to the baby. I’d just assumed the hospital would deal with whatever was left and hadn’t wanted to know the details. When I’d left I’d been too befuddled with the residue of the anaesthesia, when I’d thought about it, I’d been too scared to ask.

“Is that…?” I ask to be certain.

“Pyro arranged it,” said my mom.

It’s Pyro who steps forward and carries him, so lovingly and carefully as though he was a living child. I follow him out and watch as he places the wooden box containing my son into the back of an SUV, then sit in the rear seat with my mom, while Dad and Pyro are in the front.

It looks like every biker from the club is following behind. I don’t know where, I don’t ask why. My mind focused on the loss. My hands rest on my stomach. That’s where my son should be, that’s where he belongs. I should be able to feel him moving… But he’s not there. He’s gone, and his remains are in that box.

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