He could still see her wandering the streets, eyes vacant, repeating the same phrases over and over like a broken recording:
"I killed him..."
"It's all my fault!"
"I killed him!"
After that, he couldn't bear to see her locked in a psychiatric hospital. Couldn't watch her strapped down, medicated into oblivion, becoming a shell of herself. So he'd taken matters into his own hands, consequences be damned.
And then they'd discovered she was pregnant. The doctors had said termination carried only a twenty percent success rate given her blood type and psychological condition. Twenty percent chance she'd survive the procedure. He couldn't take that risk. Couldn't watch her vanish from his life, even if keeping her meant living with the fragments of what they'd lost.
And at the same time, he didn't want her to have any regrets in her life.
