There's only one date on my baby sister's tombstone. Primrose Evangeline Everdeen, born October 14. But Primrose wasn't born. Primrose was removed. I was four.
It was a Tuesday. Water pooled between the stones outside as I watched through the window. Each time a droplet was born it fell to the ground from above and plopped in the mud, forcing the water around it aside as it made its way to its own demise on the cold, unforgiving earth and joined others before itself.
My mother screamed, and I heard a crash. I could only watch as my father's strong archer's arms carried her to the bed and he held her hand. Moisture from her forehead soaked into a rag he held against it. I was still underneath the sill two hours later, without knowing what I was waiting for, but I remained in wait regardless.
Outside, the puddles still rippled with the deaths of fresh raindrops.
When the screaming stopped, there was a smack, and I flinched but didn't dare to look. Confusion and panic filled the room until I couldn't breathe. Smack. Then silence. The stench of death choked me.
My mother quivered and wept, and my father's soothing but despairing voice fell around me like an icy blanket. The floorboards creaked, signaling my father rising from the bed. My mother's words caught in her throat under a lump of tears and sorrow.
The sound of a shovel striking fresh earth startled me, but I didn't move from my place. Emptiness fell over the room when my mother silently joined him. She swaddled the baby in what would have been her first blanket, and stood vigil as my father dug. Six feet under.