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She wasn’t going to die. It just felt
like she was.
And right now, she really, really wanted
to.
Autry Holton rested her forehead against the cool wood of
the vanity. The orange-scented cleaner she used wafted from
the floor, and nausea churned in her stomach again. Whoever
had coined the term “morning sickness” was an idiot. It was
more like morning, noon and night sickness, and those crazy people
who said it didn’t last beyond the third month needed a mental
health check, too. Tonight, she’d be willing to bet labor
pains wouldn’t feel like menstrual cramps, either.
Holding the vanity for support, she pushed to her
feet. Her knees trembled, and she rested for a minute,
breathing through her nose. Avoiding her reflection, she
reached for her toothbrush and toothpaste. She didn’t have to
look to know her eyes were red and watery, her hair stringy, her
skin pasty. Whoever said pregnant women glowed should be
shot.
The mint cleansed the awful taste and left her feeling
somewhat refreshed. She spit and rinsed her mouth. This
constant nausea couldn’t last five more months, could it? At
least, if nothing else, it would go away when she had the
baby. Stress. It had to be the constant stress. If
she could just relax-
A high-pitched whine rent the air, and
she dropped the cup, ceramic shards flying everywhere, plinking off
the tile, hitting the wall with soft thumps. Her heart
thudded, tempo picking up to an uncomfortable race. Oh,
God. He’d come for her, just as he’d said he would. Her
stomach pitched again, and she wrapped her arms across the small
bulge of her baby. She couldn’t let him hurt the baby.
Think, Autry. She slammed the door closed and threw
the lock, hitting the panic button next to the light switch.
In the bedroom, the phone rang. She took a step back, and pain
sliced into her foot. The broken cup. Just a cut.
She could handle that. She could handle anything as long as he
didn’t get through the bathroom door.
The phone continued to
ring, and she strained to hear other noises – splintering doors,
shattering glass, footsteps. Nothing. Simply the harsh
whine of the alarm and the phone’s shrill ring mingling with the
roar of her pulse and her own harsh breathing.
In her
stomach, the baby fluttered, the low, soft movement she’d only
noticed in the last few days. “It’s all right,” she whispered,
the sound of her shaky voice too loud in the bathroom. She
slid down to sit on the floor again, blood oozing from her foot to
pool on the white tile.
“It’s all right, baby,” she
said again, rubbing a palm over the soft mound. Maybe she
should have gone for the phone, but that meant crossing the bedroom
to get the cordless phone from her desk and she’d already been here,
in the safe room with the panic button. Besides, if she didn’t
answer, the monitoring company would automatically call the
sheriff’s department. Help should be on the way.
Everything would be fine. She just had to keep telling herself
that. Help would arrive soon.
The lights went
out. The alarm ceased its wild squeal in an instant. A
neighbor’s dog barked in a wild frenzy.
Autry screamed.
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