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Jul. 12th, 2005 05:23 pmShe has her period again.
It's the first time since the miscarriage--she always thinks of it out clinically that way, exactly what happened--that she has, and it unnerves her, as she washes her hands and then sits on the edge of the bathtub. She should have known it was this week--she's had it timed precisely since she was fifteen--but this time, she'd forgotten.
No one will bother her, not here--Rach and she may share a room, but neither's around all that much, and Kitty has her own apartment anyway that she spends more time at than here.
Kitty knows a great deal about biology--for obvious reasons, she has a particular interest in it--and she knows exactly what the material that passes out of her consists of. It's blood and tissue and fluid and mucus, with an almost sour, metallic scent that you only notice if you go too long without changing a pad.
It is raw, and annoying, and messy.
It’s not so different from the not-child tissue that they removed from Val—because Val didn’t pass it, and with so much to worry about, they wouldn’t let her leave until she did.
This is every child she won’t ever have.
And this is selfish of Kitty, she thinks, that she’s now thinking about the children she won’t have when a minute ago it was the child Val lost.
Kitty hurts more for the ones she won’t have, though.
And that is selfish, and that is human, and God knows she’s human, whatever science might say otherwise, with great flaws and great gifts, and selfishness right now is one of them.
The thing is that Kitty wants a child. Not necessarily right now, or even a year from now, but before five more pass, she’d like to have one in her arms and have it be her son or daughter and—
She won’t.
She knows it, instinctively. Because getting pregnant would be selfish, more selfish than she’s being now, and she won’t do that.
Besides, she’s sleeping with a dead man.
And Kitty accepts this, that she’s not going to ever be a mother, as she’s accepted, sooner or later, everything she’s had to give up because of who she is and what she does. Sometimes with wails, and sometimes with sobs, and sometimes with rage, but in the end, it’s all acceptance.
But if, though…
But if she were, she wouldn’t throw it all away.
There was no defect. The genes were perfect, just like the baby would have been.
And it could have been something random, that no one's thought of, but it very, very likely wasn't. And Val could have caused themiscarriage with a dozen different things she did, and continued doing, no matter what anyone said or told her.
Not could.
Did. She has the test results in the nightstand of the room, and can look at them again to see the proof.
Part of Kitty thinks that Val wanted to lose the baby, and even if she wasn’t totally aware of it, tried to make it happen.
For a moment she hates herself for that thought, for being uncharitable.
And then she doesn’t think she is, and the hate for herself is gone.
Hate’s gone entirely, really, but disgust is there, and fury, and sorrow. The last is for herself, for the children she won’t have, and for the niece or nephew she won’t ever meet.
She doesn’t have any sorrow for Val. She doesn’t know that she will again. No affection, either.
Friendship is this. You are loyal to them throughout anything, and do anything you can to help them, and love them.
But when you find you can’t even respect a friend anymore, and you don’t like them, and all you feel when you hear their name is sorrow or rage or disgust or just coldness or even nothing…
They’re not your friend anymore.
Kitty has been practical, and sensible, and calm, and the adult for a long, long time now. And because of that, she’s looked at the situation logically, as much as she could, and separated emotion. Detachment in this one area, and concentration on being busy while she can.
But there’s blood, and tissue, and mucus, and what won’t be life, and it’s not so different from what came from Val, and now the detachment’s gone.
There’s blood between her legs and mucus from her nose and tears from her eyes, and for one, almost hysterical moment, she thinks, I’m leaking and they’ll have to bottle me up again, before there’s no more thought. Exhaustion and pain and ache and grief, from too long keeping things bottled up inside her, from loss of a child that wasn’t even hers, from loss of children she won’t ever conceive, from loss of a friendship and from running so long and not even staying in one place, hit her, hard. And these aren’t the quiet tears she lets out from time to time, but deep, shuddering, wracking sobs, like a child’s, uncontrolled and hurting as each rips free.
If this were a fairy tale, or a classic of a book, she would bathe when she’s done crying, and the blood and tears and all the rest would be washed away, for symbolism and cleansing of the internal as well as the external.
This isn’t a fairy tale, and it isn’t a book. This is life, and when Kitty is done, all she does is stand, taking a few deep, shuddering breaths, and then go to the sink. Cold water is splashed onto her face, and after the momentary shock wears off, she wipes it dry.
This is where the montage should start, the song for a new day dawning cut in, or a voice, cultured, slowly read an old poem that makes you think of leather books and dried roses.
None of that happens.
Kitty walks out of the room, and down the stairs, and smiles when she enters Milliways, a few hours later.
And for the moment—and only for the moment, because one cry doesn’t fix things, even if it’s a good one—that’s enough to get her through one more day.
And that’s all she ever needs.
It's the first time since the miscarriage--she always thinks of it out clinically that way, exactly what happened--that she has, and it unnerves her, as she washes her hands and then sits on the edge of the bathtub. She should have known it was this week--she's had it timed precisely since she was fifteen--but this time, she'd forgotten.
No one will bother her, not here--Rach and she may share a room, but neither's around all that much, and Kitty has her own apartment anyway that she spends more time at than here.
Kitty knows a great deal about biology--for obvious reasons, she has a particular interest in it--and she knows exactly what the material that passes out of her consists of. It's blood and tissue and fluid and mucus, with an almost sour, metallic scent that you only notice if you go too long without changing a pad.
It is raw, and annoying, and messy.
It’s not so different from the not-child tissue that they removed from Val—because Val didn’t pass it, and with so much to worry about, they wouldn’t let her leave until she did.
This is every child she won’t ever have.
And this is selfish of Kitty, she thinks, that she’s now thinking about the children she won’t have when a minute ago it was the child Val lost.
Kitty hurts more for the ones she won’t have, though.
And that is selfish, and that is human, and God knows she’s human, whatever science might say otherwise, with great flaws and great gifts, and selfishness right now is one of them.
The thing is that Kitty wants a child. Not necessarily right now, or even a year from now, but before five more pass, she’d like to have one in her arms and have it be her son or daughter and—
She won’t.
She knows it, instinctively. Because getting pregnant would be selfish, more selfish than she’s being now, and she won’t do that.
Besides, she’s sleeping with a dead man.
And Kitty accepts this, that she’s not going to ever be a mother, as she’s accepted, sooner or later, everything she’s had to give up because of who she is and what she does. Sometimes with wails, and sometimes with sobs, and sometimes with rage, but in the end, it’s all acceptance.
But if, though…
But if she were, she wouldn’t throw it all away.
There was no defect. The genes were perfect, just like the baby would have been.
And it could have been something random, that no one's thought of, but it very, very likely wasn't. And Val could have caused themiscarriage with a dozen different things she did, and continued doing, no matter what anyone said or told her.
Not could.
Did. She has the test results in the nightstand of the room, and can look at them again to see the proof.
Part of Kitty thinks that Val wanted to lose the baby, and even if she wasn’t totally aware of it, tried to make it happen.
For a moment she hates herself for that thought, for being uncharitable.
And then she doesn’t think she is, and the hate for herself is gone.
Hate’s gone entirely, really, but disgust is there, and fury, and sorrow. The last is for herself, for the children she won’t have, and for the niece or nephew she won’t ever meet.
She doesn’t have any sorrow for Val. She doesn’t know that she will again. No affection, either.
Friendship is this. You are loyal to them throughout anything, and do anything you can to help them, and love them.
But when you find you can’t even respect a friend anymore, and you don’t like them, and all you feel when you hear their name is sorrow or rage or disgust or just coldness or even nothing…
They’re not your friend anymore.
Kitty has been practical, and sensible, and calm, and the adult for a long, long time now. And because of that, she’s looked at the situation logically, as much as she could, and separated emotion. Detachment in this one area, and concentration on being busy while she can.
But there’s blood, and tissue, and mucus, and what won’t be life, and it’s not so different from what came from Val, and now the detachment’s gone.
There’s blood between her legs and mucus from her nose and tears from her eyes, and for one, almost hysterical moment, she thinks, I’m leaking and they’ll have to bottle me up again, before there’s no more thought. Exhaustion and pain and ache and grief, from too long keeping things bottled up inside her, from loss of a child that wasn’t even hers, from loss of children she won’t ever conceive, from loss of a friendship and from running so long and not even staying in one place, hit her, hard. And these aren’t the quiet tears she lets out from time to time, but deep, shuddering, wracking sobs, like a child’s, uncontrolled and hurting as each rips free.
If this were a fairy tale, or a classic of a book, she would bathe when she’s done crying, and the blood and tears and all the rest would be washed away, for symbolism and cleansing of the internal as well as the external.
This isn’t a fairy tale, and it isn’t a book. This is life, and when Kitty is done, all she does is stand, taking a few deep, shuddering breaths, and then go to the sink. Cold water is splashed onto her face, and after the momentary shock wears off, she wipes it dry.
This is where the montage should start, the song for a new day dawning cut in, or a voice, cultured, slowly read an old poem that makes you think of leather books and dried roses.
None of that happens.
Kitty walks out of the room, and down the stairs, and smiles when she enters Milliways, a few hours later.
And for the moment—and only for the moment, because one cry doesn’t fix things, even if it’s a good one—that’s enough to get her through one more day.
And that’s all she ever needs.
