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You hated that you trusted him in the past. If you could go back in time, you would never have accepted that meeting. Then you would have never been kidnapped, locked in a basement for months, then raped and… impregnated.
You didn't hate your baby; it wasn't their fault, even though they were conceived in the most horrific way possible. You remember how you cried when the two pink dots rose on the pregnancy test. That child would never be happy in a place like that. Not with a monster of a father. How would you protect them?
You planned to escape with them as soon as you could, but then the worst happened. Maybe it was stress; you don't know. Your baby was born prematurely at 20 weeks gestation. You delivered him in the room while Peter held your hand, pretending to be a helpful and caring boyfriend. You remember begging him to take you to a hospital, but he refused.
You didn't know how much time had passed, perhaps hours? But at some point, Peter's sickly sweet voice seemed to stop.
Not only that, but you remember the strong smell of copper and your bloody thighs. Everything hurt, and you don't know how you were still alive.
Then you saw your baby in his hands. He was small, smaller than he should have been, and you already loved them. You'll never forget the look of panic on Peter's face next.
Everything felt like a dream; nothing was real.
Your baby with reddish skin and purple lips, those little black eyes looked at you, sighing slowly. Like a guppy out of water, he passed away minutes later.
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It's three in the morning, and you still haven't slept. It's been two weeks since the incident. You stare at the plate of barely touched meat and mashed potatoes as you listen to the refrigerator hum echo through the kitchen. You sniffle as you press your fingertips against your eyes, as if you could stifle your own tears in the midst of grief. Your breasts are still leaking milk, and you feel an emptiness in your womb, as if something is missing, something wrong. This shouldn't have happened!
You leave the kitchen, feeling the hairs on your arms stand on end. Your baby doll pajamas were too thin to protect you from the night's chill. You don't care if you'll catch pneumonia. It was a punishment you felt you deserved for not being strong enough. It's not like that bastard cares about anyone but himself.
Your fingers touch the doorknob, and the devil appears, blocking the entrance to the front door.
“Where do you think you're going?” Peter asks oppressively, staring at you with his arms crossed. A frown already forming on his face.
“See, my child, get out of the way.” You say, pushing him with all your strength, but he barely staggers. Peter grabs your arm and pulls you in front of him. He smelled like cigarettes. Had he been smoking again?
“Darling, you should have told me before that you wanted to see our baby; I'll take you there,” Peter says, hugging you while kissing your head. The word “our” gave you chills; this was a correction.
You both leave the cabin after Peter finds a torch. He leads the way while holding your hand tightly; you feel guilty for feeling some comfort; you wish so much you could hug your parents or friends; you try to receive some comfort from someone else, but you still feel emotionally fragile to walk away. When you see the small, makeshift cross stuck in the ground, it's enough to make you cry desperately. You fall to your knees, scratching at the earth and tearing out clumps of grass. You sob loudly, your screams echoing through the forest.
Peter crouches down and hugs you again; you feel his heavy breathing close to your ear, but you can't tell if he's crying too or not. The lantern fell to the floor.
“Honey, it's not your fault! Calm down!”
“Why didn't you take me to the hospital?!” You ask spitefully, your voice cracking.
Silence.
“Why didn't you take me to the hospital? Peter, answer me! They could have survived!” You grab his shoulders, staring at him thanks to the small light the torch casts on the floor. Peter's eyes are watering, and he gives you a hurt, guilty look before his face changes to a cold expression before saying,
“No, they wouldn't have.” You felt like you'd been punched in the gut.
“I couldn't risk losing you both. Even if I had taken you to the hospital, we would have lost them all the same. Unfortunately, he was born too prematurely. Love, I'm also suffering a lot, but I couldn't risk someone recognizing you and taking you away from me, do you understand?”
You start to shake, feeling the anger and adrenaline surging through your veins.
“But don't worry, we'll have more babies, I promise—”
Peter falls hard to the ground when you slap him across the face.
"Do you think this is some kind of comfort?? Do you think my baby is an object that can simply be replaced?? I hate you! I HATE YOU!!" You scream hysterically, slapping him while kicking him. Peter holds your wrists with one hand while grabbing your throat. You choke but glare at him with hatred before saying,
“It's your fault; you killed our baby.”
The grip tightens, and everything goes black.
You wake up feeling a sharp pain, and you groan in pain. Then again, and again, that same pain: your body is shaking, you open your eyes seeing black spots in your vision, you moan involuntarily and the movement continues. Your eyes open the instant your nipple is bitten. Peter circles his tongue around it, sucking the colostrum dripping from it, while his hand presses harder on your breast to squeeze more out. You whimper, trying to move your body away, but his member moves inside you, making you fall back onto the pillows. Peter's cold eyes stare down at you as he continues to penetrate you cruelly; his legs are bent, and he lies on top of you, making his thrusts easier.
“I'm getting close. Do you still hate me, sweetie?” Peter asks with a heavy breath. “Do you think you can hate a little baby that looks like me?”
You shake your head in denial while moaning miserably; you wish to die this time.
“Big Guy…please don't…” You whispered, crying. His nickname, the one you had given him when you thought this man was the love of your life and that he would never hurt you, seemed to have destabilized him a little, just a little. He kisses you.
“I'm so sorry…”
“Shh, it's okay, darling. I already forgive you. It's almost over.” The warm liquid fills your womb again.
You thank the heavens that your baby is no longer in this hell with you.