Chapter Text
Every step was an enormous anguish, a fierce protest from her body that mirrored the quiet scream stuck in her throat. The constant pressure wave of agony threatened to buckle her knees as it clawed at her lower back. She imagined herself crawling on the floor, the instinct of wanting to cry for help, but the idea was swiftly pushed away. Giving in would mean complete collapse, giving in to the agony and the fright that tore at her mind. She maintained with a determination that even shocked her; her flat, which had before felt like a haven, suddenly felt like a torture course. Each tear, which was a witness to the intolerable reality she was facing, caused her eyesight to blur with its salty sting.
And lastly, the bed’s edge. A minor triumph, but a triumph none the less. She groaned and fell onto the mattress, which provided momentary solace from the constant agony. She breathed in sharp gasps, fighting the increasing tide of panic with each inhalation. In an attempt to ground herself in the here and now, she tightened her jaw and concentrated on the basic act of breathing. She reached out and picked up a cushion, holding it to her chest like a lifeline. As a mute observer of her lonely struggle, the smooth fabric soaked up her tears.
The lavender aroma, a holdover from a more tranquil era, did little to calm her troubled senses as she buried her face in the pillow. The need to scream and cry out for assistance was overwhelming as each contraction tore through her like a flaming brand. Over her landline, her fingers lingered, the icy plastic serving as a sharp reminder of the unfeasible decision she had taken. It was nearly intolerable to want to call 911 in order to speak to a comforting voice on the other end of the queue. However, she was aware of the repercussions. The financial strain would be debilitating, a sentence of poverty that would change her and her child’s lives forever. Fighting the mixed feelings that were about to overwhelm her, she forced her eyes shut.
She was by herself. Alone, absolutely alone. Like a shroud, the weight of that realisation fell upon her. She had no one to rely on except herself as she prepared to give birth to a child. The potential for complications was alarming, and the dangers were high. She was aware of the risks associated with unattended childbirth, the statistics, and the potential outcomes for both her and her unborn child. This information strengthened her resolve and increased her terror. There was nothing she could do. This was something she had to do. She needed to conquer the anguish, the anxiety, the crushing loneliness for the sake of the tiny life growing inside her. She needed to be strong. She needed courage. She must have been sufficient. As another wave of pain washed over her, she tightened her grip on the pillow and braced herself for the long night ahead, a night that would test the very limits of her endurance.
She felt the incredible pressure release as the last push tore through her, causing a very loud scream that was muffled by her pillow to escape her lips. The inexpensive flowery print suddenly seemed insignificant as she flopped back against the other pillows. She felt a flood of relief that was so strong it nearly knocked her out. Tears poured down her cheeks, obscuring the already faint light coming in through her rented apartment’s dirty window. It was done. It was finally over.
She swiped at her eyes, trying to focus. A warm, wet weight lay heavy on her abdomen. Her baby. Originally, she had no desire to know the gender, not that she could have anyways, she didn’t want to create the child developing inside of her—a child born out of a scenario she was still finding difficult to comprehend. Now, looking down at the tiny, bloodied creature, she saw how ridiculous her separation had been. This was real. She had a son. She felt panic tug at her throat. Though his limbs were jerking and he was moving, he was not crying. A birth that was quiet. An infant who doesn’t talk. The quiet made her heart pulse more frantically. Did he feel alright? What kept him from crying? She felt herself almost being overcome by fear and becoming totally immobilised. Driven by an innate desire to defend the small life she had created, she compelled herself to move.
She remembered the scissors. They lay in the nightstand drawer, sterile wipes beside them, the one thing she managed to steal from the hospital without notice. With trembling hands, she retrieved them, the cold metal a stark contrast to the burning heat radiating from her body. Cutting the cord. She’d read countless books, read every article she could find, trying to prepare for this moment. But nothing could have prepared her for the reality of severing the lifeline that connected her to this child.
It only took one snip. Her nose were filled with the metallic smell of blood as a wave of nausea swept over her. She was so tired that she let the scissors fall back on the nightstand. She should be doing so much, yet there was only so much she could do. She was exhausted. Her breath caught in her throat as she leaned down to her child. His eyes were screwed tight and his little face was twisted up. He continued to grasp and move, but he remained quiet. She needed to take action. The panic that threatened to overwhelm her had to be stopped.
Gently, she reached out and stroked his forehead with the back of her four fingers. His skin was soft, almost impossibly delicate. She hummed a lullaby, a tune she had heard from an opera singer long ago, a melody both familiar and achingly distant. Her voice cracked, but she persevered, the simple rhythm a lifeline in the overwhelming disorder.
He seemed to calm his motions, slowly, miraculously. The strain left his face as his small body relaxed. Then he completely ceased to move. Did she make a mistake? Fear came back, stronger and more acute than ever. Her heart was hammering at her ribs as she held her breath. She sensed it immediately. The slightest flutter of air that made his cheek move. He had a pulse. He lived. Her sense of relief returned, greater than ever. Tears of delight and unbridled love were shed. He was still coated in amniotic fluid and blood, but she didn’t care and kissed his temple. He was ideal. She thought her son was flawless.
“There, there,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. “It’s okay, Momma’s here, Momma’s got you.” She wrapped her arm around him, pulling him closer to her body, seeking to share her warmth, her life force. “I’ll take care of you… Isaiah.”
One of the many names she had considered, but her favourite, for a boy to be protected. Isaiah. The meaning was “God is salvation.” An appropriate moniker for a child born under such strange circumstances. A promise, a hope for the future, in a name. She eventually succumbed to weariness. The corners of her vision blurred as the world started to spin. She leaned back against the pillows, keeping her arm across Isaiah for protection. She felt a relief from the pain and fear as blackness descended upon her.
After a few moments, as the mild creaks of the old structure settled around them, the only sound in the room was the steady rise and fall of her chest. With his small body aching for the warmth and comfort he had experienced in his mother’s arms, Isaiah, who was curled up against her side, stirred a little. Instinctively, he drew nearer, finding a tiny bit of comfort in the lady who had given birth to him and her familiar aroma, along with that steady heartbeat of hers. He remained mute, but he was safe, and that was all that mattered at the time. He existed still.
The woman’s heart pounded against her ribs as she startled up. The dream’s familiar, eerie sights hung in the air around her. The gentle warmth of the bedside lamp stood in sharp contrast to the darkness she had just left behind as her gaze swept over the cosy familiarity of her bedroom. She whispered, “He’s alright,” her voice heavy with slumber and lingering worry. “He’s sound.” Sleep seemed far away as she attempted to return to the cushions, but the ghostly fears of the dream held on to her. There was nothing to worry about, she reminded herself. Her infant boy was doing well; in fact, her adolescent son was excelling as a bright student, with a bright and secure future. There was nothing she should worry about during this period of his life… right?