[ rose white and rose red, roses in my head ]

"She's still in a state of shock," a firm, even female voice informed whoever was listening. "She has no idea what's happened to her, it seems. Be patient and understanding, because if her pulse rises too much, we'll have to ask you to leave. She needs calm right now."

"I understand. Thank you, nurse," Charlie said, his voice smooth and calculatingly even. The urge to stand up to this madman in her midst overcame Adora like a wave of nausea, but she remained still in her bed, unmoving though her limbs ached to trash wildly in defense.

It was not beyond her how she had wound up in a hospital gurney, barely conscious and weakened. She had not easily forgotten the sound of her voice crying out to a husband who was supposed to stand by her in sickness, not guide her to it. Even after she had fallen to the ground, she could hear his words as clearly as if he had been saying them to her face instead of her crumpled form.

"What did you do?!" he had screamed, his eyes darting frantically from one pool of blood to another. "That's our fucking child you're killing!" he informed her as if she should have been grateful for the information, as he dove into the mess to help...

She hadn't been sure whose interests he was looking out for, but he was not above staining his pristine, white t-shirt with blood so dark it looked black even against his clothes.

Yes, he had done this to her somehow, and as much as she believed this simple fact, she didn't know how to express the sentiment to her nurses, doctors, friends or family when she was awake. With her eyes closed, she felt strong as ever, unafraid of making her convictions known; she would fight him and destroy him as thoroughly as he had violated her. For now, however, she would have to settle with mumbled, subdued words in her defense escaping her lips each time her eyes fluttered open -- fleetingly -- before closing once more.

She would have to get strong before she could out him for what he was.

[ where is the baby ]

"I feel like ass and a half," Adora groaned from her bed as she rolled dramatically onto her stomach. The bed sheets -- a starchy, medicinal white -- were tangled and woven around her restless frame. Her body ached, more so from excessive repose than the more obvious bruises and welts that could be seen on her skin; she had grown accustomed to these marks that made her a virtual chameleon as they changed colour and size. Her limbs longed to be mobile, and her muscles seemed to urge her to, at the very least, go for a leisurely stroll. Instead, she stretched the length of her body periodically (a trick she had picked up from watching her cats), in hopes of appeasing these urges.

"My corpse hurts," she said, as if to fortify her previous words.

"Tsk, don't call it that," Morgy chided her from the plush reclining chair in the corner of the room, where she flipped idly through a celebrity gossip magazine.

"Well that's what it feels like. I'm going to need morphine to fucking wrestle this week. And then I'll get addicted to painkillers."

"How about... no," Morgy sighed, not even glancing at her friend to acknowledge her hysterics. "I'm going to call a masseuse," she said after a pause, "because we both badly need some good rubbin'."

"Won't that hurt? The idea of someone mashing up my various bruises isn't particularly appealing."

"Whatever, yo," she said as she set the magazine down on a small side table, waving Adora's concerns away with her free hand. "There are people who specialize in massages for battered athletes."

"And abductees?"

"Well, they don't have to know that. Though everyone does, thanks to my publicist."

"Yeah, I'm not exactly pleased about having all my dirty laundry aired like that. I probably need to hire my own PR person to spin it all favourably. How bad do I look, knocked up and still wrestling!"

"You didn't know until after your last match before the vacation," Morgy reminded in a soothing tone. "It's not like you knew and recklessly went about your job anyway."

"The fucked up part is that I never really knew until the miscarriage. I was half certain that it was just stress fucking with my body."

"True," Morgy agreed, pursing her lips thoughtfully as she rose from her chair and walked across the room. "In that case, I'd be knocked up too."

"Awww, we'd have matching stress babies. Could you imagine us both walking around with babies in slings, cooing retardedly at them while we juggle diaper bags, sippy cups and pacifiers?" Morgy paused at the door and turned back to look at Adora, a flash of pain in her eyes.

"Been there, done that," she reminded flatly, and Adora immediately felt guilty for not thinking of Julius before she spoke.

"Sorry." Adora's voice was low and quiet, and it struck her suddenly that between the two of them, they had lost three children, and that under different circumstances, there might be small feet stampeding through the house and cries of wild laughter piercing the silence. Would they even be in this house if that were the case?

"So, two masseuses coming right up! Anything else?"

"How about some Double Double wedges?" Adora squealed, chasing her dark thoughts away with the prospect of food -- maybe she wouldn't become a painkiller addict and just be morbidly obese instead.

"Coming right up!" Morgy disappeared out of the room and into her own to seek out her phone, since Adora had banned the things from her sight until she felt better. When five minutes passed and Morgy wasn't back yet, Adora rustled through the sheets for the remote control; sitting in silence wasn't something she could do well since their return from the Dominican Republic. She had been watching the same DVD of I Dream Of Jeannie episodes for days now, and she was too lazy to get up and put a new set in or to ask someone else to.

"Okay," Morgy announced as she walked back into the room, just as Adora was about to press the power button. "Two massages and a lot of wedges are en route!"

The doorbell rang just as Morgana prepared to vault herself unceremoniously onto the bed.

"Huh, quick service!" She disappeared from the room again, but when she returned barely a minute later, her features were twisted with uncertainty and worry.

"What? Who was it?" Adora asked, her heart leaping into her throat with preemptive worry.

"You have a visitor," she said simply, "and I think you should see... him." She seemed to struggle with the last word, as if it would give the mystery person away to Adora, despite all its vagueness. And she did know immediately who it was.

"Brian," Adora mumbled, half answering Morgy's riddle and half beckoning him to come into the room. He stepped in looking immaculate in a slate grey suit and crimson tie, and even his typically messy hair was rather neatly groomed.

"Hey there." He offered a weak, though surprisingly sincere smile, and Morgy excused herself with her eyes firmly planted on the ground.

"Brian," Adora repeated dumbly. What was she supposed to say? So how about our kid oozing out of me like I ate some bad mayo? Instead, she rose from her bed for the first time in days, feeling suddenly bashful about her appearance. He'd never seen her look anything but perfectly put together, and now all she wore was a flimsy black tank top and tiny pyjama shorts. Her hair was in a ratty ponytail, her dark roots quite visible, and the only red on her lips was from random fits of tears rather than her trademark lipstick.

His eye bulged as she scrambled to get up and her top rose above her bellybutton, revealing large, red bruises that blended with several smaller, purple ones and made her look as though her midsection had been painted with brilliant watercolours. His hand was immediately on her stomach, a motion so quick that he seemed stunned by his actions himself.

"My God," he sputtered, "what the fuck did those psychos do to you?" His fingers brushed over her flesh gingerly and even that sent shivers of anticipatory pain through her body.

"More than I care to remember." She pulled the hem of her top down hastily, but his hand remained below the fabric.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking her in the eyes for the first time since their tryst, and as much as she didn't want to, she did the same.

"It's got nothing to do with you," Adora told him, her words slow and carefully enunciated.

"I'm thinking it has a little to do with me, and I can't help but feel like shit for how this played out."

"You watch SW on occasion, don't you? I'm a whore, remember?" Adora said with a laugh that would have been breezy had it not been so acid. "You were probably my third or fourth fuck that night. The kid could have been anyone's!"

"Don't," Brian said patiently. "You don't have to joke about this."

"Look, I'm not holed up in my room nursing my wounded maternal instinct, here, so you don't have to feel bad. I'm sitting here, looking like this more because I've been trying to figure out if I'm a monster for feeling very little for the child I lost. Child! Ha! Can I even call it that?"

"I wouldn't, but when I think of a little kid with your face and my hair whose parents won't acknowledge its existence, I feel pretty horrible. I want to... I don't know, hug it or something."

"I'll send you a bloody tampon next month," Adora sneered.

"Oh come the fuck on. No one's going to judge you for feeling shitty about this, so just drop the tough gal act. If I'm not fooled -- and I barely know you -- no one is."

"Wedges are here!" Morgy called brightly from somewhere down the hall, and Adora thanked her silently for saving her from a difficult situation.

"Are you hungry?" she asked Brian lightly, signalling that she'd had enough pondering of her life for the day, and he smiled sincerely again, as if eager to really learn more about the woman before him -- not a client, not a celebrity, not a one night stand, but the woman who, in a different world, might have been the mother of his child.

[ eternity #12 ]

Did I ever fuck up last week or what? Yeah, I was surprised myself, and I won't hide behind my ordeal as a means of excusing myself -- but I won't be impressed that someone won my title from me, either. It's not really anything to gloat about when you win something from someone who was barely fighting, but perhaps others will see it differently. I know, I know, I can't even remember who I won the damn thing from, but I'll overlook that because there were two of them -- that much I recall.

At least I can rest easy knowing that I've set a record for longest reigning Television champion. I don't see such a feat in Casanova's future. Congratulations, though! Better him that Shane Donovan, that's for sure. Better anyone than Shane Donovan, am I right?

There isn't really a whole lot left to say about my opponent; we've ragged on each other pretty thoroughly in the last few months, so I won't be redundant by making fun of him for being a vampire -- and hopefully he'll let the ever illogical whore card rest as well. Sure, it sucks that he took my title, but I sort of deserved it. It wasn't pink or sparkly, and I don't even really like TV, but it was my little buddy for one hundred and twenty days, so I'll miss seeing it draped over one of the chairs in my room.

Other than that, I don't recognize a single freaking name on the roster anymore! Remember how last week I pointed out Roxy Erikson's severe mediocrity, and how it renders her incapable of reaching the upper card? Yeah, well, she lucked out big time, because apparently everyone with decent athletic ability quit and we have a bunch of newbies lurking around instead. Sure, she's gotten to climb up a pretty long ladder to the second last event, but we all know it won't be very long before she snakes down back to start, most likely on someone's slimy cock.

Maybe Morgy and I should just have an army of babies, who would probably be able to out-wrestle the majority of SW's roster before they even learn how not to crap all over themselves.