Dear Diary

by KitsuneRisu


FEELINGS

FEELINGS

Dear Diary,

If she had survived, we were going to call her Clear Skies.

It was a name we both agreed on together, to represent the days we left behind. Me especially. It was a promise that we would do what we could to make sure that we would be the best parents possible.

No more cowardice from me. No anger from him.

For all those months that I carried her, things were probably next to perfect.

And then, that day came.

It was two months before the

the day she was to arrive into this world

when the doctor said there was news.

Nothing to worry about, he said. It happened once in a wihle, but there was really no reason to be that concerned.

An irregular heartbeat could have been for any reason. Sometimes, it could even be due to equipment error.

And then a month passed, and news turned to bad news.

I was healthy, though. By all accounts. There was ‘nothing wrong.’

We went by, believing those words that there was ‘no reason to be that concerned.’

We trusted it, because the charts and numbers and proof showed us that there was a small, tiny, impossible percentage that something bad would actually happen.

And when the day came, I pushed and pushed, and there was no cry. There was no response.

I hate I hate I hate I hate I HATE I HATE I HATE I HATE

I went into a deep depression. As you know, I still find it hard to not blame myself.

I was healthy. There was a small chance.

But there were no more clear skies.

After a week had passed, I ran.

I didn’t say goodbye. I couldn’t live with what I had done to him, and what I had done to my child. How I let down my friends and family who supported me and cared and didn’t know what to say.

It has haunted me, every day. When I close my eyes, I can still see her face, lying there in the nurse’s hooves as they held me down and took the body away.

They did their tests and they tried their best.

But I killed her.

My broken, wretched body killed her.

Sometimes things aren’t my fault.
Sometimes things aren’t my fault.
Sometimes things aren’t my fault.
Sometimes things aren’t my fault.
Sometimes things aren’t my fault.
Sometimes things aren’t my fault.
Sometimes things aren’t my fault.
Sometimes things aren’t my fault.
Sometimes things aren’t my fault.
Sometimes things aren’t my fault.

I didn’t kill her, but the pain of it is like a knife stabbing into my chest over and over and over again.

I wish I could be a mother.

I wish I hadn’t abandoned my husband.

I wish I hadn’t abandoned my friends.

I’m sorry.

I wish I allowed them to help me.

I wish I could have known what life would have been if anything went differently.

And that is my story, dear Diary.

Will you ever forgive me?