Page 73 of Bound By Crimson

Chapter Seventy-Three

Unbearable

She didn’t know how much time had passed.

Not really.

There was a window in the room—but it didn’t help. At first, she used to pull the curtains open every morning, hoping the sunlight would remind her of something normal. A beginning. An ending. But the light was always the same—dull and grey, like the sky had forgotten how to shift.

Eventually, she stopped opening them.

What was the point?

There were no clocks in the room. No calendar.

Just trays of food, the soft tap of Tessa’s shoes, and the distant sound of a baby crying.

The crying had changed.

It was deeper now. Louder. More demanding.

Not a newborn’s sound.

A baby who had grown.

And every time she heard it—every desperate wail, every breathless sob—it shattered something inside her.

Her body jolted with each cry like it was her name being screamed.

Her milk had dried up. Her breasts no longer ached.

But her arms still burned to hold him .

She hadn’t seen his face. Hadn’t brushed her lips across his cheek.

Not once.

Not even once.

She didn’t know what he looked like—or even the color of his eyes.

She didn’t know what he smelled like—or even the sound of his laugh.

And he didn’t know her voice.

He didn’t know her warmth.

He didn’t know she was his mother.

Her baby was crying for someone.

But it wasn’t her.

That was the worst part.

Lyric shifted slowly in bed. Her body didn’t ache like it used to. Not in the same places.

She was no longer sore down there. That pain had faded weeks ago—healed quietly, without celebration.

Now the ache lived in her joints. Her muscles. Her eyes.

It was deeper. Heavier. And it didn’t go away.

She had done everything they wanted.

She ate. She rested. She didn’t scream anymore.

She told herself it was for Noah.

That every spoonful of soup, every forced swallow, was part of a plan.

Get strong.

Get him.

Get out.

But she wasn’t getting stronger.

She was wasting away.

Her hands shook when she tried to hold a spoon. Her legs ached after two steps. Her vision blurred when she stared too long.

She didn’t cry anymore.

She didn’t have the energy.

Only her mind stayed sharp. Quiet. Waiting.

-- -

One night, as she lay on her side, listening to the silence between Noah’s cries, she whispered:

“He’s older now.”

It made her stomach twist. How long had it been?

Her breasts had stopped aching. The bleeding—long gone.

Her womb was silent. Her arms were empty.

They stole everything from me .

She didn’t know what day it was. Or month.

But her body did.

She had given birth a long time ago.

That night, she sat up too fast and nearly passed out.

Her body swayed. A cold sweat broke across her skin. Her tongue felt thick and sour.

The journal was still under the mattress, right where she’d hidden it weeks ago… or maybe months. She tried to focus on it—but her eyes wouldn’t focus.

She blinked—hard—but they were still blurry.

She fell back onto the pillow, dizzy and panting.

What is happening to me?

That’s when she remembered.

A voice. A conversation. A name.

Walter.

His words came back in pieces:

“They say he was poisoned… started feeling ill… slow at first. Tired. Upset stomach… And then… gone.”

Lyric stared at the ceiling.

Her heart was beating too fast.

Not from fear.

From clarity.

She wasn’t just weak.

She wasn’t healing slowly.

She was being poisoned.

Her eyes drifted toward the tray beside her.

She reached out.

And shoved it away.

It clattered softly on the table, untouched.

This wasn’t weakness. It wasn’t recovery.

It was a slow execution.