Finding A Way
Your screaming is filling me, consuming me, taking over any grip on consciousness which may have remained. I can see your cot slightly shaking in the corner, and beyond it, through hard wooden bars, purple arms are flailing in the air, tiny fingers gripping on to each other, reaching out for a hug or soothing song. I can see your face, screwed up in unattainable dreams, tears streaming down your cheeks in painful, salty tracks. But I can't go to you.
You've been screaming for hours, but I won't allow myself to get up. I can hear the saliva gathering in your mouth, and with each cry your lips crack and part, trembling against each other. I can sense your need for milk, my chest aching and hurting, heavy with your milk, heavy with that motherly liquid I should be feeding you. But I can't.
Leo will come in soon, find you screaming, find me just sitting here and blame me as usual. He'll try to understand, but he can't, not this time. He'll take you in his arms but your screams won't fade, and he'll wonder why I can't help you or comfort you. He'll wonder, but he won't say it until your cries have driven him to near insanity for hours. It's not his fault. I want to be able to hold you, to love you, to support your wobbling head against my chest. I want you to have the milk you need to grow strong, and not the thick powder from tall tins from the supermarket, but the stuff my body has prepared for you. But I can't hold you to my chest. I so afraid to make myself get up and take you. I'm so terrified of what could happen.
But somehow, I can force myself up, now. Your screams are taking up too much of me. I can look at you, and I pray that looking alone will stop your shrieking. Your face is closer to mine than it has been for weeks. Weeks, since you fell in a stream of blood and flesh from my thighs, and the pain finally stopped.
Or the physical pain stopped. And for a few seconds, I was happy. Leo was happy. Smiles were exchanged and our hands gripped tighter as we strained to look at you, both of you. I can still see it as clear as day in my eyes, flashing back as claps of thunder and lightening before me. A glance from the doctors, whispered orders and nurses rushing about as though a life depended on it. As though your life depended on it. But screams were filling the air.
Screams.
Whispers.
Frantic glances, and my grin fell forever.
My aching thighs seemed to numb, my grip on his hand fell. Your screams filled the air, I could see you squirming and stealing oxygen from your brother. I could see his form as I forced myself up, tiny and blue, lips closed, not open and greedy like yours. I remember his body, so tiny before the doctor's, as this man I didn't know and didn't want to know blew air into my son's lungs. His chest fell, and rose. But it wouldn't on it's own.
The seconds ticked by, and his form became bluer. And you continued to steal his air from him. Your body became pink while his purple arms grew blue. Your lips filled with the red of blood while his were stained white.
I wanted to stop them, stop them trying to save him. I didn't want you anymore, with your bright pink screams or tufts of slicked hair. I wanted my son, to hold him, to let him go peacefully to heaven, to feel his last flicker of life as the angels took him. But they wouldn't let me, and he slipped away unloved.
My hands hover mere inches above your face. A few more centimetres, and my hand would cover your mouth. I could stop your screaming right now. It would take nothing more than two fingers. You're still too small to protest, your head would merely turn slightly. And it would be over. The screaming, the hurting, the entire idea of you or him. You would both be just gone.
But I can't, I won't. Your face is so tiny, your eyes are so red and puffy from continuous crying. You're begging me, begging for a hug, begging for the milk that causes aching in my chest. I'll try it, try it because you are still my daughter. Because the birth and death I have in my head are lies, and inside I know that. He died because he was too small to survive, not because you stopped him breathing. Because his lungs hadn't formed properly, because his heart could not pump the blood your body filled with. Because he was born an angel and died to become one.
Your head wobbles dangerously, and my hand moves quickly to support it. Quickly, fingers slip under your neck and to the soft base of your skull. Sweat soaked blanket falls to the floor; your tiny pink babygro swamps you, you're so tiny. I never noticed before. In my head you were always huge, but you're not. So tiny and vulnerable, needing me, needing my milk and love and comforting. My tears match yours.
And when he comes in minutes later, his face lights up in a look I haven't seen for weeks. That look we had both had as you slipped from my womb into the world, before we knew the truth. But this is the truth now, I suppose. You, weak in my arms, having your first decent meal. Your brother, a memory that once existed and always will.
My eyes are closed as his fingers stroke your forehead, and kiss mine. He'll not say anything now, but leave me to be this person he wants me to be. Your mother. And suddenly I want to be this person too. I want this, the feel of your tiny body resting peacefully in my arms, your cries finally stopping, lungs inhaling calmly, hair soft and angelic to my skin. Tiny feet, softly hanging in your babygro, your body relaxed for the first time since you lay innocently in my womb. Not tense or screaming, as both of us just sit here calmly.
I know he is watching us from the door, and as your lips suckle the milk you crave, my eyes open as slits. His eyes are calm, hands resting lightly in pockets, a look of serenity on his face. Your father, who has lived for you, kept going for you, for so long. My love for him grows with each breath I take.
"Leo.." My voice croaks and an unnoticed lump explodes in my throat, tears falling against soft flannel of your babygro. "I'm sorry.." I sob, and before I can utter another words his arms are surrounding us both. Me, who has ignored him for so long. You, who he loves so much.
"It's okay now." He says simply, and I know he is being truthful. Because it is.
Because we have you, Melinda Abigail, safe and calm in my arms.
Because your brother, Jordan Lucas, dances with the angels somewhere far away, and watches over us.
Fin.
Your screaming is filling me, consuming me, taking over any grip on consciousness which may have remained. I can see your cot slightly shaking in the corner, and beyond it, through hard wooden bars, purple arms are flailing in the air, tiny fingers gripping on to each other, reaching out for a hug or soothing song. I can see your face, screwed up in unattainable dreams, tears streaming down your cheeks in painful, salty tracks. But I can't go to you.
You've been screaming for hours, but I won't allow myself to get up. I can hear the saliva gathering in your mouth, and with each cry your lips crack and part, trembling against each other. I can sense your need for milk, my chest aching and hurting, heavy with your milk, heavy with that motherly liquid I should be feeding you. But I can't.
Leo will come in soon, find you screaming, find me just sitting here and blame me as usual. He'll try to understand, but he can't, not this time. He'll take you in his arms but your screams won't fade, and he'll wonder why I can't help you or comfort you. He'll wonder, but he won't say it until your cries have driven him to near insanity for hours. It's not his fault. I want to be able to hold you, to love you, to support your wobbling head against my chest. I want you to have the milk you need to grow strong, and not the thick powder from tall tins from the supermarket, but the stuff my body has prepared for you. But I can't hold you to my chest. I so afraid to make myself get up and take you. I'm so terrified of what could happen.
But somehow, I can force myself up, now. Your screams are taking up too much of me. I can look at you, and I pray that looking alone will stop your shrieking. Your face is closer to mine than it has been for weeks. Weeks, since you fell in a stream of blood and flesh from my thighs, and the pain finally stopped.
Or the physical pain stopped. And for a few seconds, I was happy. Leo was happy. Smiles were exchanged and our hands gripped tighter as we strained to look at you, both of you. I can still see it as clear as day in my eyes, flashing back as claps of thunder and lightening before me. A glance from the doctors, whispered orders and nurses rushing about as though a life depended on it. As though your life depended on it. But screams were filling the air.
Screams.
Whispers.
Frantic glances, and my grin fell forever.
My aching thighs seemed to numb, my grip on his hand fell. Your screams filled the air, I could see you squirming and stealing oxygen from your brother. I could see his form as I forced myself up, tiny and blue, lips closed, not open and greedy like yours. I remember his body, so tiny before the doctor's, as this man I didn't know and didn't want to know blew air into my son's lungs. His chest fell, and rose. But it wouldn't on it's own.
The seconds ticked by, and his form became bluer. And you continued to steal his air from him. Your body became pink while his purple arms grew blue. Your lips filled with the red of blood while his were stained white.
I wanted to stop them, stop them trying to save him. I didn't want you anymore, with your bright pink screams or tufts of slicked hair. I wanted my son, to hold him, to let him go peacefully to heaven, to feel his last flicker of life as the angels took him. But they wouldn't let me, and he slipped away unloved.
My hands hover mere inches above your face. A few more centimetres, and my hand would cover your mouth. I could stop your screaming right now. It would take nothing more than two fingers. You're still too small to protest, your head would merely turn slightly. And it would be over. The screaming, the hurting, the entire idea of you or him. You would both be just gone.
But I can't, I won't. Your face is so tiny, your eyes are so red and puffy from continuous crying. You're begging me, begging for a hug, begging for the milk that causes aching in my chest. I'll try it, try it because you are still my daughter. Because the birth and death I have in my head are lies, and inside I know that. He died because he was too small to survive, not because you stopped him breathing. Because his lungs hadn't formed properly, because his heart could not pump the blood your body filled with. Because he was born an angel and died to become one.
Your head wobbles dangerously, and my hand moves quickly to support it. Quickly, fingers slip under your neck and to the soft base of your skull. Sweat soaked blanket falls to the floor; your tiny pink babygro swamps you, you're so tiny. I never noticed before. In my head you were always huge, but you're not. So tiny and vulnerable, needing me, needing my milk and love and comforting. My tears match yours.
And when he comes in minutes later, his face lights up in a look I haven't seen for weeks. That look we had both had as you slipped from my womb into the world, before we knew the truth. But this is the truth now, I suppose. You, weak in my arms, having your first decent meal. Your brother, a memory that once existed and always will.
My eyes are closed as his fingers stroke your forehead, and kiss mine. He'll not say anything now, but leave me to be this person he wants me to be. Your mother. And suddenly I want to be this person too. I want this, the feel of your tiny body resting peacefully in my arms, your cries finally stopping, lungs inhaling calmly, hair soft and angelic to my skin. Tiny feet, softly hanging in your babygro, your body relaxed for the first time since you lay innocently in my womb. Not tense or screaming, as both of us just sit here calmly.
I know he is watching us from the door, and as your lips suckle the milk you crave, my eyes open as slits. His eyes are calm, hands resting lightly in pockets, a look of serenity on his face. Your father, who has lived for you, kept going for you, for so long. My love for him grows with each breath I take.
"Leo.." My voice croaks and an unnoticed lump explodes in my throat, tears falling against soft flannel of your babygro. "I'm sorry.." I sob, and before I can utter another words his arms are surrounding us both. Me, who has ignored him for so long. You, who he loves so much.
"It's okay now." He says simply, and I know he is being truthful. Because it is.
Because we have you, Melinda Abigail, safe and calm in my arms.
Because your brother, Jordan Lucas, dances with the angels somewhere far away, and watches over us.
Fin.