Our Grave

The moment the words escaped my mouth, I began to fear him. Fire danced in his dark eyes, and I took a step backwards. My arms protectively gaurded my stomach, afraid what he would do to me.
“That baby can’t be born,” He whispered, his voice low and dark. Tears began to stream down my face, rolling down my cheeks like children tumbling down a hill. As weird and strange as it was, I wanted this baby. It would be the only link between me and him. And as frightened as I was of this man, my heart ached for him.
“Please,” I whispered. My eyes pleading for his love for this child. But then I felt his hand against my cheek, and felt my body slam the floor. A moan left my lips, and I tried to pull myself up, but I felt his anger again. I touched my mouth, blood staining my fingers.
“This baby will NOT be born!” His voice thundered through the small cabin that I had once found so enchanting. Now it felt like my grave. And the grave of my baby. Our baby. Our baby was not going to be able to live.

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