The contractions hit like waves.
Sharp. Consuming. Stealing my breath. I'd read a million books on the subject of childbirth, and none described it like this. This is fast and furious, and I know something is horribly wrong.
I gasp, curling forward, one hand pressed to my stomach, the other braced against the bookshelf.
This is happening too fast. Way too fast.
Oh God.
"Gabe—" His name comes out strangled. "Gabe, please?—"
"Shut up." He's pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth. The knife is still in his hand, blood dripping from the blade. "Just shut up. Let me think."
"The baby—" Another contraction. It's harder and longer, and I cry out, unable to stop myself.
Something is wrong.
This isn't how it's supposed to feel. The pressure is too intense. It's like my body is trying to tear itself apart.
"Please," I sob. "Please, you have to get me to a hospital. Something's wrong. The baby?—"
"I can't!" His voice cracks. "Don't you understand? If I takeyou to a hospital, they'll call Adrian. They'll call the police. I'm dead. I'm fucking dead."
"Then I'll die here." The words come out flat. True. "Your nephew will die. Is that what you want?"
He stops pacing. Looks at me with wild, desperate eyes. "You think I want this? You think I wanted any of this?"
"Then let me go." I'm begging now. "Please, Gabe. Please. I'm your sister. I'm?—"
"You stopped being my sister the day you married him!" He's shouting now, pointing the knife at me. "You chose him. You chose that fucking family. You left me."
"I didn't leave you?—"
"Yes, you did! You married a monster, and you had his baby and you forgot all about me!" Tears are streaming down his face. "I needed you. I needed my sister. And you weren't there."
Another contraction. Worse than before. I can't speak. Can't breathe. Can only curl into myself and ride it out.
When it passes, I'm shaking. Sweating. My vision is blurring. I feel sick.
"Gabe." My voice is barely a whisper. "Do you remember the lullabies?"
He blinks. "What?"
"The lullabies. When you were little. When you couldn't sleep." I force myself to look at him. To see past the knife. Past the blood. To find my brother underneath. Gabe isn't evil. He can still be reasoned with. "I used to sing to you." Tears are streaming down my cheeks. They are mixing with snot and drool, and I know I have to look horrendous.
Not that I care.
My life is in Gabe's hands. My son's life as well.
"Sera—"
"Hush little baby, don't say a word," I sing softly. My voice cracks. "Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird."
"Stop." He waves the knife at me. I try not to think about where my missing flesh is.
"And if that mockingbird don't sing—" Another contraction steals the words. I gasp, gripping the shelf.
"Stop it," Gabe says, but his voice is different now. Quieter.
