Monday, September 23, 2013

Day Five-Thirty-Six: Trauma

I haven't had a knife held to my throat since the thing with the bandit.

I'm… I'm still a little freaked out about it. And the more I think about what happened, the worse it gets.

It's not even that I was on the brink of death. I've been there before. I've died before. It's just that specific action. A knife on my throat. I… it brings back some really painful memories. Painful, scary memories. Being in the damned hole wasn't even that scary.

Maybe it wasn't as bad at the time. Maybe I've built up an impenetrable wall of horror 'round it. Maybe… maybe.

Fuck. The bandit. Maybe I'll be able to talk about it some day.

Some day.

Enough about that. There's a new horror facing me, one I've kinda glossed over since we left. I haven't wanted to talk about it, but it must be addressed. Any day now, my wife is going to give birth. And when she does… I don't know how it's going to work.

Scratch that. We. WE don't know how it's gonna work. We being the whole of the Dauphine. Including our medic and the one wetnurse who's helped with births before. None of them have any experience with pregnant women whose bellies are anywhere near as big as Libby's.

And when I say big, I mean BIG. I've made reference to Libby's precarious situation in previous weeks, but none of my past entries do her situation justice. She is huge. She is so huge that her stomach is roughly as large as the rest of her body. And then some. She is so huge that her hammock has long since drooped to the ground, forcing us to set up pillows on the floor beneath her to keep her comfortable. I fear that the bolts holding the hammock up won't last much longer. Hell, I fear that when they inevitably give out, Libby's going to break through the damned floor and land in Engineering.

I haven't heard any feasible methods for getting this baby… if it's gonna BE a baby… out of my wife. Everybody's too afraid of how I might react to give me honest answers. Only person who really suggested anything was Grylock, and his was plain and simple: "Cut the thing outta her." Might be we'll have to do that.


If we cut it out… if we slice open my wife's belly…

Is she going to survive…?

I really wish I had an answer to that. Because as much as I fret for the health of my throat, I fear for Libby… and my baby… all the more.

Gods. She's close. We both know it. What the hell are we gonna do…?


Dragomir the Wanderer

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