Sleepy Fox Hollow [m] nomajoka

She drew to her full height before him, her eyes once more simmering with tears. Anselm was reminded of the moon as it hung low in the sky, reflected against a dark pool of blackwater. 

He sighed—feeling wretched in every sense of the word. What were children if not a problem? And what if she bore them — would they grow up crazy and obsessed with an imaginary god? His mind leapt with a thousand injuring thoughts, each somehow more unpalatable than the last.

But she drew away with an air of finality, and Anselm was left to ponder the meaning of her words. He assumed — quite ignorantly — that she meant to somehow terminate the lives just freshly laid under her skin. Perhaps she would utilize Fiona. 

And like a man who had the blessing of only ever truly thinking for himself, Anselm assumed this was the rightful conclusion, and that there was no confusion over what must be done. 

She would terminate the pregnancy, and he would go back to his quiet, unhappy life — and the two would never speak of this again to anyone.

He nodded, feeling no less miserable. He was not a man to beg, and while moments before he’d been flush with the energy of his own manhood, now he saw it for what it was — an empty, hollow thing of chasing seconds and fleeting joy — the purest pleasure gone in a second and replaced by thorns and barbs. 

She turned to her daughter. Anselm left without a word.