literature

Happily Ever After

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Literature Text

Happily Ever After
It had all started with love. At first sight.

He had met her years ago. She had been this unbelievably tall kind of girl you only meet once in a lifetime. Her hair was as long as a lovers' night and her neck would have put a swan to shame. But this had only been the bonuses, the things people hardly noticed, as all they could see were her eyes. Back then, she already had those deep, velvety chocolate irises, always shining with what could be compared to an after-fever glow.

Haute couture had practically begged her to enter her world. He, on the other side, only had to ask and became part of her life.

They had lived as they could, happy with what each other could give: she was just an amazingly beautiful girl, and he was plainly in love.

Being pretty, however, wasn't enough, never would. Out of the blue, she started a diet, to lose some imaginary yet upsetting extra-weight.

In the beginning, it was hell. Pains in her stomach were always a reminder of the starvation she made her body go through. Then, someday, she had done it. She could wear the smallest size of clothing: 0. And wouldn't, for anything in the world, look at her naked, skeletal body in a mirror. This is about when she died inside.
And there was nothing he could do.
Meals, he took them alone, as she couldn't stand the mere sight of food. Hiking in the forest, he'd go by himself, as she couldn't walk for long before her knees would hurt and he would have to carry her home. Intimacy…well, he'd rather not think about those moments. It was just too awkward.
They went on for two years. Two f****ing years. Wasted years, as they waited for things to get better, or at least, to stop worsening. Neither of them wanted to call it off, but he knew that he was the only one to love, and she was well-aware of her luck to have him. So, when It happened, he didn't jump, nor hug her, or whatever it is normal couples do. He just laughed. Pointless, hysteric laughter. Finally, he had something to do, to wait for.

Despite all probabilities, his anorexic girlfriend was pregnant.

Months passed, in a daze. He was always fussing over her, trying to bring her to at least eat some pastas or mashed potatoes every day.

One evening, on a warm summer night, he paused, and looked at her. Really. Carefully. He had helped her settle in a long chair near the window of their apartment. Sunlight was all over her, like a lover's caress. Like the lover he'd never stopped being.
Her once magnificent hair was now crispy and almost grey. She didn't have much of it left, anyway. Her skin was paper thin, and her bones stood out, just as if they wanted to leave her, to get away from the baby.

Said baby had already broken a rib and injured part of the hip bone, just with the little extra weight he was putting on the shattering frame of his mother.

She had sensed his gaze and turned her head to look at him. She still had those breath taking eyes. Big, bright, unforgettable eyes. She smiled at him. A sad, broken smile. She knew what she was. He didn't need to tell her.

Somewhat, he felt like a stupid teenager, not knowing what to do when the girl he adores bursts into tears. The teenager would forget about the incident: he's young and inexperienced. But the grown man he was couldn't stop feeling guilty about that. He wasn't stupid, and his girl wasn't crying; she was dying. Slowly. Painfully. She wouldn't go to the doctor to see if he could help. Wouldn't eat. Wouldn't protest when he pretended to have a headache when they got to bed.

He felt like a true, despicable jerk. One that's helplessly in love, to make it worst.

The remaining months passed, too fast.

Now, he is standing in a hospital room, at the end of the small bed. The nurses and doctors have left some minutes ago, telling him to call when he is ready.

On the bed, on this damned bed, lies his wife. Lifeless. She is as pale as the sheets. The delivery of their child has killed her. She broke her coccyx and was too weak to survive it. The birth of their stillborn baby.

He closes his eyes.

It had started with love at first sight. It ended with a statistic.

958 women/day.
958 women/day die during or after giving birth.
Published:
© 2010 - 2021 Solyme
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gizmie's avatar
strongly written :)
i dont understand why women place more importance to their looks than the life that is growing inside them...is anorexia the major cause of all those deaths?
Solyme's avatar
Thanks ^^
For anorexia being the main cause of these deaths,I don't think so. Many women die because the give birth at home, without proper assistance. Sometimes, it's because they are too young (like 12 years old), or because they haven't have enough to eat but not because of anorexia. Still, anorexia itself is an horrible thing too, as people living with it are often alone and hard to help.