Sonata (Butcher and Violinist 2)

What is it? Was it the drug? What did they give me? Did it poison me? Am I more broken than I knew?

“Please,” I whispered. “I would tell Jean-Pierre whatever it is, regardless.”

Dr. Martin watched us and then nodded his head. “Okay. Let’s sit down.”

“Just tell me.”

“I am an old man and you two are rattling my nerves.” He eased himself over to the couch and sat down. “You two can sit, if you want.”

Hand-in-hand, we walked over to the couch across from him and planted ourselves down.

“What’s wrong?” I asked again.

Dr. Martin looked at me. “You’re pregnant.”

I opened my mouth in shock.

Jean-Pierre rose and began to pace. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Very sure. We should do another examination soon.” He pulled out a piece of paper. “I have a prescription for you. I’m changing your pain medication, due to the present situation. There are also prenatal vitamins on there. I can recommend several top of the line ob/gyns.”

I stared at Dr. Martin unable to speak.

Jean-Pierre walked over and took the prescription. “Thank you.”

Dr. Martin and him talked more.

My fingers shook.

“Um.” I cleared my throat. “I need a minute. I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time.” Jean-Pierre’s gaze held worry.

Was it worry for me or fear about the pregnancy?

No. No. No. Now’s not the time. . .

My heartbeats increased. I grabbed the doorknob with shaky fingers. My hands had already been sweaty. I went into the room and shut the door behind me.

Oh my God! I’m not. . .I’m in no condition to be. . .somebody’s mother. . .not right now.

I tried to catch my breath, but I couldn’t get the rhythm of my breathing.

What am I going to do?

Uni the Unicorn appeared and smiled. “I think you’ll be a great mom.”

I blinked.

He was no longer there. Or was he ever there? Was I bringing him back? Were they ever hallucinations from the drugs? Or was it all me, after laying in darkness with a dead body? Did I go crazy?

I leaned against the door unable to walk forward. Across from me the vanity table stood. My reflection showed in the mirror. I’d been avoiding my reflection all day, but this time I looked back.

Who am I?

The bandage took up most of my cheek. My curls lay messy all over the place, from Jean-Pierre and I rolling around in bed.

I had no idea what to do with my life anymore. I would have to wait until my fingers healed, to see if I could hold the bow right. My left hand jittered and trembled too much, and it hadn’t even been injured.

Sometimes after Jean-Pierre went to sleep, my hands shook, and I couldn’t stop them.

My eyes watered.

What the fuck are you crying about? Now’s not the time. You’re pregnant. What are you going to do?

It wasn’t about the money or taking care of our child. Jean-Pierre would spare no expense on his son or daughter.

But what about the child’s life?

I hugged myself.

It could be a dangerous childhood. Running around all the time. No. No. Jean-Pierre wouldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t let that happen.

I ran my fingers through my hair.

I need to get better. If I’m not crazy, then I’ll be okay. Then our child will be okay.

I left the door, walked to the closet, and took out the suitcase. “I can go somewhere to get fixed or. . .”

I dragged the suitcase to the center of the floor, and let it go. “What am I doing? I’m too scared to leave him. And if I wasn’t scared, I don’t know if I can ever leave him.”

I’m not leaving for good. Just for now. . .Maybe I would leave for a little while. Wait. Why am I leaving in the first place? I don’t know.

A tear left my eye. I wiped it away quick and glanced around the room to make sure no one saw.

Okay.

I inhaled and exhaled.

Breathe. I did. Breathe again. Did I ever stop? Stop it.

I stepped away from the suitcase and went to the bathroom. “I’m losing it.”

Where was I going?

I shut the bathroom door behind me.

Where could I go?

I made it to the sink.

What do I need to fix right now? Me. But what part? I don’t know. Who am I talking to now? Me. Can I talk to myself? Yes. I think that’s normal. I talked to myself before.

I turned on the faucet, filled my shaking hands with cold water, and splashed a little on the part of my face that wasn’t bandaged.

There we go. I just needed some cold water. Everything is okay.

Shaking my wet fingers, I turned off the faucet and studied myself in the mirror.

My body trembled.

When will the shaking stop? Why am I still scared?

I fisted my uninjured hand. I wanted to punch something. Scream. It wasn’t fair. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be, with Jean-Pierre and me. Of course I wanted to have a child with him. . .eventually.