April 1912, Aries House

In my fifth month of pregnancy, my temperament has become increasingly difficult. The relationship between Augustin and me has also become strained by endless arguments. Augustin never cares too deeply about anything, and that is the biggest difference between us. Our arguments are actually quite dull, and sometimes I do not even understand why they happen. Only recently, two days ago, feeling bored, I took a walk in the garden. Alone. Augustin could not find me and became angry. He unloaded all his worries and annoyances on me. I did not feel like I was the subject of that worry, but rather my unborn child. When pregnant, who cares about the mother anyway?

I sit at the dressing table, absent-mindedly combing my hair. The curly brown hair of the noblewomen looks extremely dull. Augustin walks into the room, and I do not bother to look up. We have not spoken to each other for two days, even though we still sleep in the same bed. I can smell the brandy on his breath. I keep combing my hair and don't care.

Augustin walks towards me quietly. Then he kneels down, hugging me from behind. His face buries in my back, rubbing like a small animal. His arms hold me tightly, as if a shackle does not let me escape. I can hear a low growl in his throat. Augustin speaks while he's drunk:

"I'm sorry..."

"You apologise too much," I reply angrily . "I don't know if I should believe you."

"I shouldn't have been angry with you," Augustin completely ignored my words. It seems he is too drunk to listen.

I want to say something else, but I think better of it. This is not the first time he has apologised, and of course, it will not be the last. I sigh and turn to look at him. Augustin lies with his head on my thigh. His breath is heavy, blowing straight into my maternity dress, making it rise and fall. I stroke his head like a mother caressing her child. Then I bend down and kiss him on the forehead. I lift him up and walk him to bed, as if he were a child. He falls asleep quickly, snoring softly. I sit on the edge of the bed, watching him sleep. I feel like I am not just looking at my husband, but also a child who needs protection.

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I bow down and place a kiss upon his forehead. Lifting his face, I whisper softly, "It's time for bed." I try to guide him back to the bed, thankfully Augustin cooperates, or else I would not be able to support him alone. But then he refuses to sleep. Augustin suddenly acts coy with me. He wants to lie on my lap, to be petted like a child. I do not know what my husband has encountered outside, and I cannot refuse a legitimate request from my husband. After all, I am a wife, and I must comply. I allow him to rest on my lap and pet him. I close my eyes and imagine my husband as Satine, our old cat. Things are easier that way.

After a while, I open my eyes, feeling a hand groping my chest. Augustin ignores my gaze and continues to knead them. I feel uneasy and call him repeatedly, but my husband does not seem to care. Then he sits up, his hot and heavy breaths brushing against my face. Augustin looks eager, his lips press against mine forcefully, with a hint of drunkenness. It takes him a while to let go, but his hands still can't leave my chest. Feeling uncomfortable, I grab his hand tightly and warn him,

"Please, the baby?"

"I only want your breasts, don't worry," he replies.

At this moment, I begin to feel concerned about what my husband has gone through today. I cannot resist his control. Augustin tears off the top of my dress, immediately revealing two breasts round and taut as those of a pregnant woman. Augustin looks at me for a moment as if checking my attitude, but clearly he does not care if I frown uncomfortably. His hand gently squeezes it, and a white spot suddenly appears at the tip of my breast. Colostrum, I think. My husband smiles lightly, then bends down to suckle it. My body produces milk for the unborn child, but now I use it to feed my husband. I do not know how I feel. My mind suddenly becomes both empty and blurry. My husband is resting his head on my lap, his mouth gnawing at the milk. I sit there, holding his hand, with red eyes since when.