This has been on my computer now for a little while as having written this part (and part of the second) I wasn't really sure where I wanted the story to go or even if there was a story beyond the end of that second part. So I sort of just left it - plus I'm always a bit shaking on continuing fics I've already written (despite occasionally having good intentions of sequels). But I had an idea for a story that could follow this - though I was unsure of the realism. But thanks to some very kind people who I have asked questions, I think it could work (though I am unsure of how well I can pull it off). Anyway I hope that this is ok :)

There is silence and yet your head rings with the sound of a scream that you cannot push from your thoughts. It mingles with the silence becoming part of it, though you know that makes little sense. To be frank nothing makes sense to you in this moment, because what has happening; what is happening is senseless. You want to scream, to run away and yet you cannot do so. You cannot seem to move from the spot where you are rooted, eyes the only part of your body that haven't frozen. You find your gaze moving over those in the room, though you are near certain you are no longer seeing things correctly. You can see the spot where your friend had stood, only you know she left sometime before. You have no real idea of how long ago it was – mere minutes or longer – time no longer has any bearing for you. You had seen her go, seen the way she had bowed her head from you, so that you wouldn't be able to see the sheen of tears that dance in her eyes, waiting to roll down her cheeks unashamedly though she cannot do so in front of you. You do not know to where she runs, whether she will seek comfort in somebodies arms or if she will slip down a wall somewhere and allow herself to break having seen something she wants so desperately to forget, heard a sound she will never forget.

You see staff members who have bustled in to the room. You hadn't realised the emergency bell had been pulled, perhaps it had been muffled by that scream or overtaken by the silence that seems to have claimed your hearing. You can see their lips moving though you cannot hear the words they speak, cannot even follow the shapes their mouths make. You know what they are saying. You know it without needing to hear it.

One of the doctors, a man who seems unfamiliar and yet you are sure you must know him, holds in his arms a bundle. A bundle that had been in the arms of the woman still crouched at the foot end of the bed, doing things he cannot take stock off. You had forgotten that there is more to come, that things do not end with the birth of the child.

The man holding the bundle is someone to whom you have probably stood next to in the lift, behind in the canteen queue. You have probably smiled and nodded an acknowledgement in his direction, perhaps chatted at Albie's. But you cannot smile at him now. You wonder perhaps whether you will ever smile at anybody again, because it seems in this moment that, this is an impossibility. You will, you think, force it. A false twisting up of the lips but you, and everyone else, will know how very fake it is. A tormented grimace masquerading as a look that had once seemed so natural on your face – because you are one of those people who smiles often. You are known for your cheek, and your boyish charm. Though now you think that is lost to you.

This man is holding the bundle still, and you know he is confirming what is known. He is looking at the bundle and then back up at those around him. It strikes you in this moment, that he has seen more of your child than you have. You have seen scan images and seen an imagined child in your dreams, but you have seen the real infant for only seconds as she was passed, still and quiet, from the arms of the midwife to another midwife who had wrapped her in a towel before she was passed to the man who now holds her. It strikes you that indeed you should be the one gazing at your child, taking her in, drinking in every least millimetre of her tiny body for this is all you shall ever have off her.

You turn away now because you know what is coming next. You have seen the man making movements to turn also and you are not ready. You know without doubt, and yet they are turning to you and that means hearing those words and next steps. And you are not sure that you are ready now. So you turn away, and look at the woman on the bed.

This is the woman that you love. You need to tell her this, but your throat is swollen shut with emotions that you are trying so desperately not to show. You are unaware of the tears that stream down your face, and the ragged way in which you breath. You are aware of so very little, due to blurred eyes and altered senses. But somehow you see. You see her now and that is almost harder to bear. You have avoided looking to her face, and now you know why. You don't think you have ever seen her quite like this.

She is exhausted, you know this and yet you are unsure if you see evidence of it. You see the way she is lain in the bed, and think that may be your proof that she has no energy to prop herself up but it is not this that your eyes focus on. Instead your eyes are drawn to hers. Eyes which confuse you because they seem so conflicted in their look. In so many ways, she is blank before you. Everything wiped clean of the canvas that makes her the woman who know and love, and yet there is still something there. A wild panic perhaps though you cannot be certain, there is so much which is unreadable about her now.

You pride yourself on knowing her, knowing her better than she knows herself you think because she has a twisted logic. You know that despite her outward confidence, the control and manner with which she runs – rules – her life, both professional and personal, that inside she is so very different. You know that she is quiet when it comes to her own truths, that she would rather the reality of them bubble beneath the surface until they become projected on to another and expelled in a way which means she doesn't have to reveal anything of herself. It is her defence, a way of protection though it causes more harm. You know all of these things about this woman. And yet in this moment you know so little of her. You do not know what she needs, or how to comfort her because you cannot seem to read her. It is as if the life, the soul that resides within her has slipped away with the bundle in the arms of the man who you know is now facing you.

You think it would be easier to comfort your friend, the one who has disappeared. You know that you would wrap your arms around her, hold her until she can shed no more tears. And you know that during the time, her own arms would come around your body until you are entwined in each-others embrace, that she will continue to hold you until your own tears have run dry and you are left with a shaking body, and the knowledge that even though, for now, you can cry no more that still things are not better. You have done this with her before, drawn comfort from the arms of your dearest friend, bodies twisted so it is hard to tell where one of you ends and the other begins. But while she may need you, she is not your priority right now. Your priority is this woman on the bed, and yourself, and that tiny still little bundle who you still hope will wriggle and draw breath though you know you that this is merely a dream that cannot be realised.

You hear your name joined with hers in the voice of the man, or you presume it has to be him as the only male other than yourself in this room. You force your eyes from her face, shocked by the relief at no longer having to see something that scares you in those eyes. The crush of guilt at that threatens to overwhelm you when twinned with the grief that already seems set out to destroy you.

You try to force your ears to concentrate, to listen to words that you do not want to hear. He is telling you things that you do not want to hear, that this happened days ago and he asks had you not noticed any changes and you force yourself to shake your head because she had not told you anything. She makes no sound from the bed, and you presume that you have answered well enough for her, though you are near certain she is not hearing, or seeing, anything in this room.

You listen, though there is no explanation of why you are in this situation. Finally they say words that you had wanted to hear for so long though not like this, never had you wanted it like this. Finally they are asking you and the mother of your child, for you are still mum and dad even though you're child has never drawn in the air of this world, if you want to hold and spend time with your daughter. They tell you practical things about this, about the time they can have together only you are not really listening. You are waiting now, for the time you will be able to spend with them as a family. No matter how brief it will be.

Only then there is a voice that you don't quite recognise, though it is so very familiar. It says only one word "no" and you understand. You understand that she is telling you, and them that she cannot do this. She cannot bear to do this and that shatters your heart all the more. You cannot bear the idea of never seeing her, and never being with her and so with a voice hoarse and unsure you ask whether you can spend time with her, even though the mother does not wish too.

You hate the idea of leaving her, and you ask if someone can be phoned for her, someone to sit with her. You have to rack your brain for someone, for she has no family on whom to call. No maternal grandparents to be phoned with news you never want to give. You shake your head as you think of the phone calls you will have to make to your family. You do not speak often but you know they are waiting for news of the newest member of your clan; for details of the inevitable party, the celebration of a new Maconie.

Finally you know. Your mind comes to rest on the person who is her family despite no blood relation. You think of her friend. You give details to the waiting midwife who nods and goes to make the call. You ask, quietly, if it is alright to wait until he arrives before you spend time with your daughter, because you do not want the woman to be alone though it breaks you to think that the baby may be, even for a short time. Another person – midwife or auxiliary you aren't sure – nods and tells you she will get the baby ready in another room and that you can join them when you are ready.

You will never be ready you think. But you need to do this and so you wait, until the second person returns and tells you that the friend is on his way down. You wait while the first midwife, the one whose sure hands had guided your daughter in to world, delivers the organ that has sustained life for so many months. You wait, never wanting the door to open and having to face someone familiar because this will just be the start. You will have to repeat this so many times, though they will all know, still you will be faced with sympathetic faces and you will have to learn to cope with that without shattering in to pieces each time. You wait, each second bringing you closer to facing the reality of what awaits you in another room. You wait, unable to look at the frozen blank face of the woman. And then you hear the door, and your wait is over.