The Life That Is Mine

The Story of Maxine Cameron, from Beginning to End

Chapter One: Death and Delivery

This was quite a big day for us all. It was the biggest; you might say, and quite truthfully. For what bigger day could there be than the day in which your daughter, your child, your heir of the blood is born into this world? It is a great day, an awesome feeling, the best thing that can happen to any man or woman. And although it was not my child, but the child of the one I love and his ex, I was happy just the same.

Roberta, my lover's ex, is a fantastic woman. She is smart, funny, witty, kind and understanding. She is the kind of woman you can spend a day with and come to know and love her like you had been together a life-time or two—she's just that likable. I can see why Christopher loved her. I love her too, now—just not quite like he did! They were to be married, but the both of them changed their minds at the last minute, took some time off, and decided that breaking up was best—that's how I enter into the picture! But, despite their conflict of interests, they remain the best of friends.

And now they are to share this child.

There is a problem, however. Now that the two of them broke up, they no longer live together, and that means that the child is split up too. They wish to love and care for it equally, which would be no big deal if they were still together, but they are not, and here is where issues arise. Christopher has me, Roberta also has another—that is four people, two sets of new-founded parents, and what is to happen to that one baby, who has four to love and care for it?

Yes, it. I don't yet know the sex of the baby—Christopher and Roberta probably do, but they never told me, and it would be rude to ask. Ah, well—I like pleasant surprises! The gender doesn't matter, it is all the same, so either one would be a happy one!

I pushed my way out of the public bathroom, yawning, my eyes half-closed. It had been a long night at the hospital, and I was dead tired. We—well, actually, Christopher—got the page from Roberta—well, actually, Aaron—saying that the baby was coming. We got excited and rushed over to the hospital, as was directed—never mind that it was one o' clock in the morning and Christopher and I still had gotten no sleep (bad me!). At first, excitement and adrenalin kept us going. Now, well into the tenth hour of this whole venture, and still not ten centimeters dilated, and I am getting tired—lack of sleep'll do that to a person.

I stumbled over to the bench where Christopher lay, spread out and limp. He had fallen asleep in the ten seconds I was away! Well, actually, he may have fallen asleep when I was there—I may have been too sleepy to tell. For several minutes I stood there, admiring his sleeping form, transfixed to the point of oblivion to my surroundings.

He is one fine specimen of male beauty, and just as I can see why he loved Roberta, I see why she loved him, and why I do now. He is a wonderful man in personality—sweet, understanding, loving, intelligent, calm, humorous, thoughtful, considerate, empathic even—but also in body. He is lean and lithe, his muscles strong and taunt, yet not overly obvious—unless his shirt is slightly unbuttoned, or there is water involved. (I am soooo bad!). His skin is pale and velvety smooth, so much so that I could spend an entire day stroking his bare chest, basking in his warmth and beauty. His beautiful black hair, long from not being cut, splayed all about his head as he lay there, giving him the appearance of a sleeping angel. As soon as he wakes up he opens those deep, warmth, honest, beautiful blue eyes of his, and I can't help but fall in love all over again. Who could? Who would?!

How did Roberta give him up…? How did he give her up…?

I am wickedly glad that they did; and such feelings shame me, but are forever there.

He opened his eyes and, just as I predicted, his soft, piercing gaze made me melt, leaving me at his mercy, desiring to be taken as he sees fit. "Robbie?" he asked, giving me a quizzical, almost comical gaze, as if very confused and confuddled.

I snapped out of my daze, unable to help my laughter. He blushed, embarrassed, but I knew he enjoyed the attention. "Any news?" he asked me.

I sat down beside him, placing my hand over his and smiling. "No, but don't worry—everything's going to be fine."

He looked nervous all the same. "Yeah, I know—but you know how I am, worrying about every little thing."

I laughed, seeing the truth in his words, remembering when he freaked out that one time I fainted—on a hot summer day, in the blazing heat, no less! He knows I'm intolerant to extreme temperatures, but he worried anyway. I laugh about it, but he was tremendously worried. "Yeah, I know, but," I consoled, "it means you care—it's one of your traits I find most attractive."

He perked up. "Really?" He sounded skeptical, but he wanted to believe me.

I nodded. Yeah, along with his muscles, and his looks, and how he… (stupid thoughts! Bad, bad, bad me! Bad thinking!) "Roberta too."

He laughed and waved it off, blushing form my praise—he's so easy to persuade, and he is very susceptible to flattery! Well, at least, flattery from me now, and Roberta in the past. Another of his little quirks I find absolutely adorable!

Robbie, or Robi, or even Robby, is short for Robin—my full name. I am often called Robi, even by my bosses and co-workers. Christopher is called Chris, except by me and Roberta (as a tease we call him Chrissy/Chrissie); Aaron is Ron, or Ronny, or Ronnie; Roberta, however, is Robert, or Bobby/Bobbie. My last name is Nightingale (my parents, not me!), Chrissies' Cameron, Ronnie's is Theresia, and Roberta's is Tawna. Hopefully (for me and Roberta) these last names will change, and right quick! (crossing my fingers on that one!).

A doctor came by to tell us that Roberta had dilated most of the way, but that the delivery could last a good long while more, and that we best make ourselves comfortable—it hasn't even begun, much less ended! He promised that we would be alerted immediately if anything were to happen, and that we were to remain here. We thanked him and decided to do just that: make ourselves comfortable, and perhaps catch some sleep so that we'd (at least) be fresh and wide-awake when the little baby was born!

We made ourselves comfortable on the bench that was hard and uncomfortable, and far too narrow for one person to lie down on, much less two full-grown adults. But, somehow, we managed to fit, although we were rather cramped and squished together—(I didn't mind!)—so that I (who was in front) wouldn't fall off. He was shoved up against the wooden bars of the back of the seating, his left arm draped over me, holding me tightly in place. Although it was cramped and uncomfortable, it was more so for him than for me, and I was happy just to be with him. Plus, we were too tired to care much, anyways! People shot us strange looks as they passed, but we ignored them—we are used to odd looks, and since they don't hurt and don't matter, we ignore them. Bobby and Ronny do the same.

Before we drifted off to sleep, however, I had a question to ask. "Chrissie?"

"Hm?" he grunted. He must've been halfway asleep—he always falls to sleep faster than me, which has to with his profession, which means that he gets more of it, and that he is far easier to awaken. (I would know!).

"I was just wondering—what are you and Bobby going to name the baby?"

There was a long silence—a thoughtful one, I could tell. For some reason I just know certain things about him, such as what his silences indicate, and how his sleeping patterns and actions reflect his feelings or state of mind. "I'm not quite sure," he said slowly. "If it's a girl, I was leaning towards Carmen, while she wanted Maxine. But if it was a boy, I wanted Jason, she wanted Henry or Harry."

I was shocked. "You mean you don't know the sex of the baby!" I hissed.

He shook his head and smiled, amused at my reaction. Almost everything I do amuses him—another idiosyncrasy I love (it also means we hardly ever argue or get mad at one another). "Neither of us do—we both wanted it to be as much of a surprise for us as it would be for you and Ronny. Why—is that bad?"

I shook my head. "No, of course not—I was just shocked, is all." I flushed red, not sure why I was suddenly all pouty and defensive.

He laughed his deep, calm, soothing, sexy laugh—the one that sends shivers up my spine. I shut my eyes, lost in ecstasy. He squeezed me tighter and I sank deeper into my subconscious, completely content and happy.

I snapped out of it enough to finally say, "But how are you going to decide the name once the baby's born?"

He shrugged, an amazing feat to accomplish, considering the current position we are in. "Flip a coin, maybe. I dunno."

I glared at him half-heartedly. "Over such an important thing as the child's name?!" I demanded indignantly.

He gazed at me dreamily, for all the world as if I was the most beautiful, radiant creature on this earth. I quickly turned away, blushing, and he whispered into my ear, "I love it when you get angry—it's so…sexy."

I shivered. (The tease!)

The both of us shut up and drifted off to sleep, him much faster than I. I don't know how he does it—on a normal day my mind is flooded with so much information and data to process that it can take me hours to fall asleep; but here he is, his ex-wife about to give birth, and he nods off immediately, as if it was a switch that decides his waking status!


I pondered the complexities and possibilities of such an absurd notion until I, too, nodded off, far behind my lover, but in front of him all the same…

Before I knew what was happening I was awake again, and everything was going chaotic around me. I lifted my head, my eyes heavy with sleep, my brain still mostly shut off. Chrissie was up, on his feet, his eyes wide and alarmed. Those calm, laughing eyes were so full of panic and fear that I immediately knew something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Before I even processed my own actions I was up too, standing beside him, searching all around me for an answer.

Before I could ask, Chrissie was gone, sprinting off in the direction of his ex-wife's delivery room. I had not choice—nor did I have any time to make such a choice—but to run after him, my heart quickening, growing as frightened and worried as he, more from ignorance than knowing. Often it is what we don't know that frightens us the most—for when we are oblivious, our imaginations kick in, and they are often less than pleasant.

Usually we over-exaggerate, in our minds—and considering what flew through my own head, I prayed to god that this was one of those times.

He stopped abruptly in the doorway of the room in which Bobby and Ronny resided, along with a slew of doctors and nurses. They were moving about frantically, almost at a feverish pace, shouting orders and commands, doing things so quickly. I didn't know what they were doing, but I knew what they were doing it for.

Right there before us, lying on the bed, was beautiful Roberta, but she didn't look quite so beautiful anymore. Her fiery, flaming, bright blood-red hair, usually so neat, shiny and orderly (a constant jealousy factor of mine) was now drenched in sweat, spread over everywhere, tangled and a complete mess. Her face, usually so happy and cheerful, was now contorted into ugly shapes and forms, twisted and debeautified by the pain she was obviously feeling. Her body was thrashing about, bucking wildly; her green eyes open wide and glossed over. Several nurses were caught up in mad attempts to stop her wild lashing out—she could hurt herself, a doctor, a nurse, equipment, her unborn baby, or a combination of those above—and they were sweating just as profusely as she.

Ronny was standing behind the bed, tears falling freely, trying to soothe and calm Bobby—needless to say, it wasn't working. She was no longer herself. Ronny could do nothing but weep and sink into despair; I saw it unfold before me, Ronny's fall and break, Ronny's slip into destruction, Ronny's crumbling form the inside out, the end of the Ronny we know, and Bobby loves.

Chrissie looked like he was about to crumble and fall as well. He just stood there, frozen, petrified by the scene before him. He knew what it meant, and he couldn't even react to it. His face had been drained of all color, and his knuckles were turning white where he griped the doorframe so tightly that I was sure his fingernails would leave deep gouges in the wood. He looked shaky, as if he was about to collapse at any moment, or throw up, or something. But he didn't. He just stood there, his mouth open in shock, unable to move, to think, to react; unable to do anything. He was helpless, absolutely helpless—as were we all.

I reached up and put an uncertain, shaky hand on his forearm. He didn't even seem to notice, but I knew it helped bring him back, helped him stay together—for a little while, at least. It was not a touch to comfort, for there was no comfort to give or to receive. Rather, it was a touch to remind him that the world had not stopped, it had not ended; Armageddon and the apocalypse were yet to come, and I was still here. It helped him—but it didn't do much compared to what countered it; what happened next.

All that happened next was as much of a blur to me as it was to him. A doctor came up, covered in sweat and in blood. He told us to have a seat, for we were blocking the path in and out of the room. He informed us that we could do nothing but wait—and pray and hope and have faith. We obeyed. I lead Chrissie away, but not too far away. I bid him sit down, and I willed myself to be the strong one—for him. I felt weak and sick inside, but I knew he felt worse. As we sat the tears started for him, and they wouldn't stop. I held him tight and let him cry and sob into my chest. As I held him I stroked his hair and hushed him, crying softly myself. I didn't say it would all be okay, because I didn't know that—and I didn't believe it was all that possible, not even for a second (not that I was going to say that either!)

We didn't have to wait overly long. Everything was quiet before we knew it, and we knew it was over. The panic and fevered pace of the doctors and nurses diminished. They fell silent and began leaving the room. I didn't see how so many doctors and nurses could fit into that room, but a lot sure were coming out. They all look down-hearted and unhappy, but it was nothing next to the despair felt by Ronny and Chrissie—or even to what I was feeling. Nobody needed to tell us what happened, we knew—it was obvious. The birth had failed; Bobby was dead.

The same doctor who has requested that we get out of the way approached where we sat, looking downcast and unhappy himself, even if what he felt was nowhere near what we felt—but he knew that, as well.. He also looked sympathetic, and I could tell he was sorry for our loss, even if he can't really feel the pain—as a doctor he has to get used to such things. He approached us and said, "I'm sorry. Roberta Tawna didn't make it."

Our fears were confirmed, even though it was obvious that she hadn't—but thinking you know, even as certainly as that, and knowing you know, from being told straight up, are two different things entirely. I knew Chrissie was still wishing that this was a dream, that none of this was happening, that the delivery hasn't even begun yet. He nearly sunk into despair that day, but I didn't let him.

But there was no one to stop Ronny from slipping down that same path.

We drifted, dream-like, into the now empty delivery room. Roberta lay on the bed, looking awfully pale, but also far more at peace than she had in her last minutes of life. She looked restful and blank. She didn't look like a corpse—her skin was always pale—she just looked deathly tired. Of course, we knew better. She was dead, and (hopefully) off to someplace better than this cruel world of ours.

Chrissie knelt down by Bobby's side. I stepped back, knowing that he needed a few minutes of private time with the would-be mother of his child. We assumed the child hadn't made it, either; with Bobby gone, we assumed a lot of things. He held her hand and bent his head, whether in prayer or blessing I know not. He knelt there, holding her hand, for the longest time before slowly and shakily rising. I was immediately by his side, holding him tight, as much to support him as it was to support myself.

Ronny had been escorted out of the hospital room. Apparently Aaron Theresia had calmed enough to be allowed back in to say good-bye to Bobby. Kneeling beside Bobby, Ronny bowed that blonde head of hair, cried, prayed and did whatever else—that is between Ronny and the deceased Bobby. I heard some of that muttering, and it made no sense to me. "All my fault…shouldn't have done it…wish I could go back…take me instead…I deserve to be the one to die…horrible beast…"

All of a sudden Ronny shot up, spun around and in those gray eyes I saw fire, an almost demonic quality I have never before seen the likes of. They were full of hate, and anger, and bloodlust. Ronny lunged, and before I could react, Chrissie had been tackled and Ronny was trying to hurt him as much as humanly possible. I screamed and he was able to hold our Ronny off until a doctor returned to pull the crazed-Aaron off of Chrissie. As the doctor pulled Ronny away, I heard the screaming, which formulated into words of venom and detestation.


And, with that, Ronny was gone; carted off to a mental hospital, or some such, leaving the two of us shaken, sad, scared and overwhelmed. If only this day had never happened…

It must've been far worse for Chrissie than for me. He lost a love (he still loved her, he just loved me more, and in a different way), a child (who he was going to flip a coin to decide the name of), hopes for the future (a child, to further his blood-line), and happiness (he can be happy now, yes, probably, just—having a child would make him happier, and easier to regain happiness). Now all he has is me, and Bobby's deranged lover. The best day ever had, so very, very quickly, turned into the worst day ever—for all four of us. Chrissie lost a child, Ronny lost a lover, Bobby lost a life, and I lost all of the above—yet I was the one who suffered the least.

After a good long while of silence, contemplation, thought and grief, a nurse entered the room. She was a plump, short, Hispanic, matronly looking mother who obviously knew of our plight, judging by her sympathetic brown eyes and soft, soothing way of talking and moving. "Excuse me—Mr. Cameron, Mrs. Nightingale?"

We turned around sharply and nodded, not even bothering to point out her grave error—it didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore, least of all something so trivial. "Yes?"

She smiled sadly. "Come with me."

Puzzled and confused we obeyed, wondering why. She told us that there is no need to ask, only to follow, so we did—curiosity took control.

We followed her down the cold, impersonal halls of the hospital, which we had seen as the most beautiful place in the world only a few short hours ago. Now, however, everything was too cold and sterile and uncaring—it gave me the creeps, and I could practically feel Chrissie shivering. I squeezed his arm and he seemed to calm down a bit. We continued to follow the strange woman, who moved amazingly fast for one so stout.

She led us long and hard, and I was beginning to wonder if we were actually going somewhere, and not just traveling around and about in circles. I should've had more faith—we stopped, after a while, right in front of a blue-gray door. It was closed and unmarked. The woman in the nurses outfit—probably because she's a nurse!—paused, waited for us to catch up, turned, smiled, opened the door and went in. We followed, having come too far to turn back now.

The room was dark and we couldn't see anything within it. The door closed behind us and I practically jumped out of my skin. It was pitch-black and I was blind as a bat—only lacking the ability to tell where I'm going and to avoid bumping into things, so I was really blinder than a bat. I clung to Chrissie, and he held me back, so I felt a little bit better. Then, right when I was about to turn around and open the door—or find a light-switch—and Chrissie was about to say something, or leave, light flooded the room and we both stood, staring, shocked.

For all around us were little sleeping forms of babies. Their soft, angelic features and beautiful little bodies made me gasp for pleasure. But while I was transfixed and awed Chrissie hardened and grew tight-lipped and cold. I knew why. He had just lost a baby, and this was cruelty at its peak. He was about to walk up to that woman and give her a piece of his mind.

"How dare you! Listen to me when I say…!"

She shushed him, almost angrily, and beckoned him forward. He was so shocked that he complied, with me following absent-mindedly, amazed and captivated by the little babies, beautiful and adorable, even if they were ugly (which some of them were).

The woman was standing next to one baby in particular, beaming down at it, ignoring Chrissie. He stood beside the nameless woman and looked as well. He was immediately spellbound, all words and actions forgotten as he saw that little face.

It was a most beautiful baby, and once I noticed what they were looking at I looked too, and soon all three of us were bound, as if by a spell. The baby was awake, staring up at us with big, round, bright green eyes which shone with curiosity and intent—you could tell this child was going to be smart, and wise. Its skin was still tinged with pink, but it was slowly turning back to pale, the color which it would forever be forced to live with. Upon its precious head were wisps of adorable black curls. It was quite literally the most beautiful creature I have ever seen, and I recognized it immediately.

The woman smiled at our reactions and allowed us to absorb the young ones glory for a good long while; I don't know for how long—time eluded me, as I also knew it eluded Chrissie. After a while, though, the woman reached down and picked up the baby carefully. It didn't cry or fuss or anything like that, but instead watched us with intrigue and curiosity—an amazing feat for a baby of any age! The woman cradled the pink bundle lovingly and carefully, and then turned to the pair of us, who were too stunned to speak.

She carefully held the baby out and Chrissie took her carefully, his tears and grief forgotten with that baby in his arms. He smiled down at it, and it giggled. I giggled too, a few more tears sliding down my cheeks. I peered at it over Chrissie's shoulder, resting my chin in the crook of his shoulder, and for the longest while we stood, gazing at the baby girl, as he rocked her back and forth and the nurse watched us; content.

"She's beautiful," the nurse stated simply.

"That's stating the obvious!" I giggled.

Chrissie was too stunned to speak.

The nurse stepped forward and caught his eye. He reluctantly lifted his head, to be polite and answer the nurse's call. "Yes?"

He was too shocked to speak, even as he stared at her. Instead it was I who stepped forward and answered for him. "Maxine. Maxine Cameron—for Roberta."

The Nurse smiled and scribbled something down on her clipboard. "Middle?"

I exchanged a significant look with Chrissie and turned to answer. "This is gonna be a long one," I sighed, and told her.

We were saved!

:::There's the beginning—hope you like so far! However, before you continue reading, I have a few warnings to give. This is a yaoi, and a yuri, and a lemon. It also contains straight pairings and sex scenes. Each chapter is rated individually, and there is sufficient warning, so no complaining to me! If you want, I will create edited versions of some chapters and send it to those who ask. Myemail is (won't let me put it! but my screenname is MadSciGrl, and I am at aol, so you figure it out!) or you could just ask in a review. (Even if you want the edited version, I want the review submitted for that chapter!)

Now, I have a request to make—other than that you read and enjoy and, most especially, REVIEW! For those of you out there who can write poetry at all (most definitely not me!) I have a challenge to issue to you. For each chapter I would like you to e-mail me a poem you think fits; lines and length matter not. Send them to me, and I'll use the one I like best for the beginning of the next chapter. Even if I have already submitted the chapter, send one if you have it. Who knows, maybe I'll like it more than the one I have up, and maybe I'll change it!

All poems you send to me become mine, although I will of course give as much credit and recognition as I can (in the end). Until the last chapter, though, they will just be poems I put up—but rest assured, they won't be mine, so no worries!

The reasons for the poetry request will be explained in time, so don't ask.

All I can ask is that you do your best, and that it is optional, and a request only; I have said all I need to say—the rest is up to you!

If you have any questions, e-mail or review me, and I'll do my best to answer your queries—if I can or want to. You understand, some things may be best left alone, or the answering of such may ruin a surprise, but I shall do my best!

Read, review, send and enjoy!:::