Call of duty one shots

Life in the household I shared with my partner, known to the world as Ghost, felt like living in the eye of a storm—an unsettling calm surrounded by chaos. I had always been drawn to the strengths he projected: his unwavering confidence, his commanding presence. But underneath that bravado lay shadows I couldn't ignore. His drunken rages clouded our home, turning once warm embraces into icy encounters filled with fear and regret.

Ten months ago, on an unlikely night beneath a sky heavy with stars, I had vowed to stand by him through thick and thin. I believed that love could heal anything. But now, as I stood in the bathroom, staring at the small white stick that confirmed my worst fears, I felt only despair. A single word echoed in my mind, resonating painfully: again. I was pregnant again—with our fifth child. Five small lives that had come into this world against the backdrop of a father who had become more of a stranger than a partner.

Tears streamed down my cheeks, their salt mixing with the uncertainty lodged in my throat. I could feel the familiar weight of dread settling in my chest, squeezing tighter with each breath. How could I bring another child into this tumultuous environment? It seemed cruel, an act that condemned them to witness Ghost's downward spiral.

As I pondered my options, I imagined fronting the truth—the long, difficult conversation that would follow. But that thought terrified me. Faced with his anger, the inevitable accusations that would fly, and the heavy burden of his monstrous persona, I decided I had to protect our unborn child at all costs. The only choice I saw was to hide the pregnancy, putting on a mask woven from threads of lies to shield our baby from a man who could no longer be trusted.

Days turned into weeks, and as my body transformed, so did my resolve. With each passing day, I learned to navigate the delicate balance between reality and the façade I had built. I wore oversized sweaters and fostered a habit of slouching, allowing my gut to protrude without acknowledgment. The mirror became my enemy, reflecting the truth I desperately sought to hide. Every time I glanced at the reflection, I felt my heart unravel; my body had become a prison, one I had to escape from without alerting the one man who could shatter me.

Ghost rarely noticed my distress—too engulfed in his own turmoil, still trapped in the bottle, the violence, and the anger that perpetually simmered beneath the surface. When he returned home after nights of drinking and brawling with shadows that haunted him, he was quick to lash out. And oh, how he loved to project his own insecurities. "Look at you, packing on the pounds, Y/N," he would slur, disappointment dripping from every word as he fist-pumped laughter at my expense, plunging a knife into the scant hope of my heart. "Guess you're just not trying hard enough to look good for me."

Those words struck like daggers. Each kitchen encounter turned into a minefield where I fought to maintain my composure amidst the shame. Hidden behind a forced smile, I would counter with a laugh that never quite reached my eyes, pretending it was just the weight of life pulling me down, not the child I shielded.

There were late nights I spent curled up in bed, the gentle flutter of our baby reminding me of the choice I had made—a choice born from love but now tangled in fear. I spent countless hours poring over dreams, hopes, and memories of a happier time when Ghost had barely gathered the dark clouds that now overshadowed our home. I wanted to believe he'd change. I waited for him to see the life we'd built, even if it felt like an elusive wish—a mere flicker of a dream poised to disappear.

But as weeks blurred into months, even I began to doubt the path I'd chosen. My head was heavy with the weight of my secret. How far could I take it? How much longer could I lie?

At a family gathering, surrounded by those who would inquire about my growing belly, I found the courage to tell a half-truth: "Gaining weight from the holiday feasts." They smiled knowingly, all the while missing the storm brewing beneath the surface. Behind the closed doors of my home, each moment dragged agonizingly as silence smothered our conversations. Ghost only cared about his next drink, and I remained the invisible wife hiding behind layers of pain.

Then came the morning it poured outside, each raindrop mirroring the tears I had long suppressed. Ghost was gone again, lost somewhere between shallow streets and broken promises. A fresh wave of panic crashed over me. The final decision loomed—one that felt both liberating and horrendous.

I sat on the living room floor, surrounded by remnants of children's toys and memories. With shaking hands, I scribbled down all I had ever wanted to say to him, pouring my heart onto paper, balancing the truth and the protection of my unborn child. Could he ever listen? Could he ever find the man he used to be? Or would he forever be a ghost, just haunting our edges?

If I could muster enough strength, I would find a way. A way to break the cycle, to embrace the love that had once been there. I could only hope that one day he might turn around and see the beauty buried beneath the weight of our struggles—the love that could heal even the darkest of pasts.

And as the rain fell softly outside, I made a vow to myself and to the child I carried: I wouldn't give up. I would strive for a better future, one where shadows would no longer define us, and love could be reclaimed for me—the both of us. The struggle wouldn't be easy, but in that moment, I felt the flicker of hope spark deep within—a flame that I could protect for as long as it took.