salience
September 20, 2003
Sleep hasn't been a comfort to me in some time, dreams like these are the only thing to fill my eyes when they close:
We're in a room, everything is dark, the curtains are closed tight against the sunny world outside. All he and I can see are her eyes from where she lay, sad, pleading. She refuses to tell us what happened, but we can infer from the pregnancy test results staring at us from the ravaged package. Her father and mother have nothing to say, although both leave to mourn the life their daughter will never have. They are both barely 50, she is 14. This isn't the way it's supposed to be. The months pass. Her life is different, she is different. None of her friends, or even that junior who got her here, talk to her. She can't help but notice that the love in her parents eyes has been replaced with disgust. All she wants is to be alone, to hide from the life inside her. Her mind races through the different ways she could get rid of it. But what if she is hurt and the baby is fine? What then? No, no she will have the baby.
It happens on a cold spring morning. Her mother is by her side before she can yell the alarm. In a haze of anxiety, medication, and pain, suddenly she has a child in her arms. The faces pass over her, the colors change, and she is back in her room, the baby sleeping in what she recognizes to be her old crib by her bed. Her parents are happier, they can't get enough of the innocence. The daughter manages a smile for them every now and again. Maybe, just maybe, they will allow her some freedom now. The weeks turn into months and the baby is crawling. Her mother whispered this morning that she too will be bringing life into this world, and is eerily happy that her daughter will grow up with her granddaughter.
The months pass and her mother is well into her third trimester. They trust her again. She is able to run errands with us, the baby always joyful company. Old friends always offer help now, and she might just go back to school.
He and I, along with the father, decide it would be a good idea for us to change the spare bedroom into a nursery--the babies would be good comfort for each other. We get the mother and daughter out of the house long enough for us to put it all together: the new crib and the old one, the new curtains for that little window in the corner, the changing table your friend gave us, it will all look great once it's put together. Time passes all too quickly, and soon we hear the garage door opening. Run now, finish it all up real quick. I run downstairs to greet them. We have a surprise. Please, come upstairs. Come see what we've done for you.
Both are shocked and smile. The mother clutches her swollen belly, running her hands along the changing table edge. Go, go get the baby, let's see what she thinks. The daughter runs into her room to fetch her child. We made sure she was able to get her rest while we worked as quietly as possible. And there we are, all four, soon to be five of us, waiting for the daughter and child to return. The minutes are passing too quickly, and the joy has begun to fade. I run into the hall so that she won't miss it, so she can be a part of something good. But as I raise my eyes to her bedroom door, I stop. I can't breathe. There she is, holding her sleeping baby. Does she see me? Look at how peaceful they are. I see something shimmering in her right hand. Oh God. I know. No. I'm screaming and crying, I can't, I just can't let her finish this. I run towards her but he stops me. He tells her it's no good, that she doesn't really want to do it, but she slowly steps away from us, towards the stairs in the entryway. Her father comes screaming, like he's been waiting for this. The baby isn't crying anymore, it can't. She is holding its throat in her hand. And then she is gone, in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. Her parents can't move, he tries to hold me back. I break free and rush past all of the blood she left behind her, hoping that someone is still alive. But they are lifeless, lying there, the daughter's left hand still holding the knife she had plunged into her chest, the knife she had killed the baby with. The baby is no longer recognizable, just scattered pieces of red purity.
We're in a room, everything is dark, the curtains are closed tight against the sunny world outside. All he and I can see are her eyes from where she lay, sad, pleading. She refuses to tell us what happened, but we can infer from the pregnancy test results staring at us from the ravaged package. Her father and mother have nothing to say, although both leave to mourn the life their daughter will never have. They are both barely 50, she is 14. This isn't the way it's supposed to be. The months pass. Her life is different, she is different. None of her friends, or even that junior who got her here, talk to her. She can't help but notice that the love in her parents eyes has been replaced with disgust. All she wants is to be alone, to hide from the life inside her. Her mind races through the different ways she could get rid of it. But what if she is hurt and the baby is fine? What then? No, no she will have the baby.
It happens on a cold spring morning. Her mother is by her side before she can yell the alarm. In a haze of anxiety, medication, and pain, suddenly she has a child in her arms. The faces pass over her, the colors change, and she is back in her room, the baby sleeping in what she recognizes to be her old crib by her bed. Her parents are happier, they can't get enough of the innocence. The daughter manages a smile for them every now and again. Maybe, just maybe, they will allow her some freedom now. The weeks turn into months and the baby is crawling. Her mother whispered this morning that she too will be bringing life into this world, and is eerily happy that her daughter will grow up with her granddaughter.
The months pass and her mother is well into her third trimester. They trust her again. She is able to run errands with us, the baby always joyful company. Old friends always offer help now, and she might just go back to school.
He and I, along with the father, decide it would be a good idea for us to change the spare bedroom into a nursery--the babies would be good comfort for each other. We get the mother and daughter out of the house long enough for us to put it all together: the new crib and the old one, the new curtains for that little window in the corner, the changing table your friend gave us, it will all look great once it's put together. Time passes all too quickly, and soon we hear the garage door opening. Run now, finish it all up real quick. I run downstairs to greet them. We have a surprise. Please, come upstairs. Come see what we've done for you.
Both are shocked and smile. The mother clutches her swollen belly, running her hands along the changing table edge. Go, go get the baby, let's see what she thinks. The daughter runs into her room to fetch her child. We made sure she was able to get her rest while we worked as quietly as possible. And there we are, all four, soon to be five of us, waiting for the daughter and child to return. The minutes are passing too quickly, and the joy has begun to fade. I run into the hall so that she won't miss it, so she can be a part of something good. But as I raise my eyes to her bedroom door, I stop. I can't breathe. There she is, holding her sleeping baby. Does she see me? Look at how peaceful they are. I see something shimmering in her right hand. Oh God. I know. No. I'm screaming and crying, I can't, I just can't let her finish this. I run towards her but he stops me. He tells her it's no good, that she doesn't really want to do it, but she slowly steps away from us, towards the stairs in the entryway. Her father comes screaming, like he's been waiting for this. The baby isn't crying anymore, it can't. She is holding its throat in her hand. And then she is gone, in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. Her parents can't move, he tries to hold me back. I break free and rush past all of the blood she left behind her, hoping that someone is still alive. But they are lifeless, lying there, the daughter's left hand still holding the knife she had plunged into her chest, the knife she had killed the baby with. The baby is no longer recognizable, just scattered pieces of red purity.
lasaliente, 15:35
