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Good Intentions ⇼ Luke Hemmings

Thirty-Three.

Today marks a week since the last time we saw our baby. A week of me staring at his urn and out ultrasound pictures. A week of me wishing we’d bought more objects for his shrine and spent more time worrying about the pains in my stomach. And I hate myself. I hate myself so much for not taking enough vitamins, not going to enough doctor appointments, not calling Dr. Alver at the first sign of pain. I hate myself more than I ever have before. I want to undo time. Take everything. Part of me wishes I was still with Maiko—maybe we’d have better luck with a child. Maybe I wouldn’t be so heartbroken if I’d never taken Luke back. I’d never have been pregnant. I never would have lost my child.

I’ve reached a point where crying feels natural. The tears never stop and my heart breaks everytime I look at the space where we keep our memories of him on our dresser. My breathing is shaky and Luke’s began sleeping in his old bedroom because he says it annoys him to hear my sniffles all night. If this were a different situation, I would hate him for that. But late at night, he comes to my door and he kisses me on the head because he thinks I’m asleep. Then I hear him creep back and shut his creaky door and I listen to him sob until his alarm goes off and he goes to work in the morning.

I hate him for what he did to me. Getting me pregnant, leaving our bedroom, avoiding me. I hate what I’ve become. I can’t sleep, eat, talk to my friends, or get out of bed. I hear my phone in the middle of the day, ringing from the kitchen counter. It goes off and off and I never get up to answer it. When Luke is home, he answers it. I can tell who he’s talking to by the tone of his voice.

When it’s my family, his voice is very soft and quiet, I wouldn’t be able to hear him if the walls weren’t so thin. He tells them that I’m still not doing too well and we are trying to work through it. He tells them we will call them when we feel up to it and he begs them to stop calling. When it’s our friends, he yells at them to stop calling and stop trying to come over. He tells them it’s only been a week and if they don’t leave us alone we will never get through this. Then, he apologizes to them and begs them to just. Stop. Calling.

Luke is hardly home anymore. He goes to work, goes to the bar, comes home and goes to sleep. I never see him. I’m not sure I would like to see him, anyways. I just wish he’d try to see me. I wish I could talk to him. It’s two in the morning and I hear his creaky door as I pull the blanket over my hips and place my hands under my face as the doorknob turns, I close my eyes and slow my breathing as best I can, a ritual I became accustom to. I heard a sniffle as he pulled the blanket over my shoulders and kissed my forehead. Once I heard him walking away, I opened my eyes.

“Luke?” My voice was quiet and my breath was shaking. He stopped walking and I watched as his muscles tightened in his back. He was shirtless and his skin appeared to be soft and warm. His sweatpants hung low on his hips. I could see the dimples under his spine.
“Hey.” He whispered with the slightest hint of a sigh. He turned around and walked toward me, moving the hair out of my face. “How are you feeling?” He asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, placing a hand on the opposite side of me, somewhat leaning into me.
“I don’t think I deserve to be alive right now. I killed him. I killed our child.” He was silent for a long while as tears poured out of my eyes.

“Don’t say that-” He whispered before I cut him off.
“How can I not, Luke?” I sat up, causing him to retract his arm. “He was in my stomach! He was my baby! And I killed him! It was no one’s fault but mine!” I sobbed, choking back tears.
“No, Romina.” Luke’s voice was stern. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t do anything, I didn’t do anything. No one did anything. It wasn’t our fault.” He grabbed my cheeks, making me look at him. I saw tears in his eyes. “It wasn’t our fault. We couldn’t do anything. It just happened.” His voice lowered to a whisper as his hands fell. He shook his head, closing his eyes. “It just happened.” He repeated, putting his head in his hands. “And I really wish it didn’t.” His voice was rough and he finally lifted his head. “You should get to bed.” He stood, breathing out heavily. “I’ll come in tomorrow night.” And with that, he was gone.

***LUKE’S POINT OF VIEW***

I threw my head back as I downed my drink, turning to Ash in a dizzy spin.
“Luke, you should slow down, you’re pretty wasted.” I rolled my eyes before sighing.
“I don’t need you to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.” I snapped, slamming my cup down. “I didn’t ask you to join me. You forced your presence upon me.” He pursed his lips, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head.
“Luke, you have to stop this.” He spoke. “I know you’re hurting. But Romy is hurting too. You have to be there for her. You shouldn’t be drinking your pain away. You should be with her.” He tried to set a hand on my shoulder, only for me to push him up and stand. I was dizzy as I clenched my teeth and shook my head, grabbing my jacket and beginning to walk away.

As I walked past the pool table, I slid a hand on it, knocking a ball out of place as the players yelled. I was grabbed by the arm and shoved against a wall.
“What the fuck is your problem, mate? Had a fifty bet going.” He snapped, his breath hot against my face as I noticed Ashton heading over. With a surge of confidence, I spat in his face. A fist collided with my mouth, then one with my eye. I fell to the floor and the man began to kick my stomach and ribs, Ashton yelling at us to break it up. After three more kicks, the man lifted me by my collar and shoved me back against the brick wall. “Walk.” He spat, releasing me with another push to the wall. Ashton ran to my side, grabbing me by my arm and ushering me away.
“What is your problem?” Ashton hissed, “I’m taking you home.”

***

I quietly walked into our flat, tossing my coat on the counter and grabbing a bottle of water. As I walked to the bathroom, I couldn’t help but bump into the walls and stumble down once I made it to the toilet.
“Luke?” I heard Romy’s small voice speak. Closing my eyes, I held my breath, praying she wouldn’t see me like this. I heard the creak of her bed as I hid my face between my arms and the toilet lid. “Luke.” She repeated before her hand gently touched my back. Her breathing was shaky. “Luke.” She spoke a final time before I lifted my head. Her jaw dropped, but she didn’t say anything. Instead, She helped me up to sit on the toilet, wetting a rag and taking it to my lip. She gently cleaned the dried blood collecting on my eyebrow and bottom lip. Setting down the rag, she left for a few seconds, returning with some pajama pants, an icepack, and a shirt. She gently took my shirt off, biting her lip as she stared at my bruising chest. Without a word, she put the clean shirt on me and did the same with my pants, allowing me to hold the ice to my eye as she did so. Then, I was helped up and brought to her bedroom. She tucked me in the bed and lied next to me, kissing my forehead. Without thinking, I rolled over and set my head on my chest. Her arms folded around me and I fell asleep.

Notes

Comments

@Allie Miller
:)))

ohhhh!!!! getting right on it

@exiiliious
Same. Well, I guess you probaly figured that out from the reference and my profile picture of Gerard Way. XD

@Ana Hemmings'
I love MCR haha

OH MY GOD!! I cried so hard when their son died! I'm not okay(anyone else catch that MCR reference? No? Ok then.)! Please update this!!!