Desolation

How could it have possibly come to this?

He lay on his side, his back turned to her, and stared at the far wall, his heart and mind in torment. Ever since he had brought her home from the hospital after that horrible night when he had almost lost her, he would curl up beside her and wrap his arms around her. She would turn into him, welcoming his embrace, and fall asleep listening to his heartbeat, her hand resting comfortingly over his chest. It had been the only way he could fall asleep: with her nestled in his arms, where he was sure she was safe.

Now, three years later, she lay as far from him as she could - in truth he was surprised she was still in his bed at all. Once she would have welcome his touch, his soft caress and light trail of kisses over her shoulder before they fell asleep. But for three weeks now she would stiffened, and shift silently away.

He needed her, now more than ever, but she only ever rejected him, not with words so much as actions. And he had no idea what he did to cause it.

Tonight was little different: their new routine of cold silence and avoidance had completely replaced the laughter and lingering caresses the shared between then when she told him the news. She had lifted the pale beige sheets and climbed into bed, immediately rolling on to her side and staring at the wall so she wouldn't have to look at him. He had followed suit, sliding under the sheets and staring at his own wall. But it had been three weeks now, three long, painful weeks of stone cold silence he just could not take it anymore. Softly he whispered his words to her, finally finding a hint of courage in the moonlit dark. He begged reprieve, knowledge, understanding, the merest hint of what he had done to cause such a rift between them.

Her sniffle tore at his already battered heart, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Her shuddering breath grew a knot in his throat, and he swallowed it down. But her stiffled sob he just couldn't bare. He rolled over and tentatively touched her shoulder, trying to lend her what comfort he could, even though he desperately needed it himself. He expected her to shudder in revulsion at his touch. He expected her to stiffen and jerk away and reprimand him in the harshest tone her normally soothing voice could manage. But she didn't. He cupped her shoulder in his palm, and she shook, and her stiffled sobs could not be stiffled any longer. He whispered her name and rolled her on to her back and looked down at her. The tracks of tears that had fallen down her cheeks, and the wet patch on her pillow where they had landed, tore his heart from his chest.

As gently as he could he slid his arms around her, and for the first time since it had happened she curled into his side, and buried her face into his chest, and cried.

And for the first time since it happened he allowed allowed his own defenses to fall, and cried too. For when he took her in his arms he allowed his eyes to linger on the spot she had been staring at for those long weeks, as if punishing herself for her imagined sins. It was a small spot in the corner of their bedroom, not yet complete, and the sight of the simple cot where their child was to have slept was more than he could bare.

He buried his face in her hair, the soft locks absorbing his tears. Together they cried, mourning the future they should have had, and now never could.

Together they grieved, and for the first time since her fall they leant on each other, lending comfort and support to the other.

Eventually, in the early hours of the morning, with the waxing moon shining down on them through their window, they cried themselves to sleep, only now once again able to rest in each others arms, the first steps towards healing finally taken.