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07:04:00
She gave up. There was no sense in making him live like everybody else. She accepted the things as they were. She arranged the furniture in the room. It was hard to put together the bed, to put inside a teddy bear, to fold the towels and little clothes. She was tiresome. When her room looked more like a child’s room she felt a sense of a deep desperation and inevitability of upcoming days. She felt a pang of guilt for the way she was treating him and for what she was about to do to him in the future. She would never make up for what she had been planning to do for weeks. She went shopping and bought him a couple of gifts: some comics, a nicely-wrapped shower gel. She also bought some things for the room to make sure that she participated in the process somehow.
And when she woke up in the middle of the night and looked at the crib, the teddy bear, and her stomach, she so desperately wanted to die, she cried silently the biggest amount of tears she had ever shed in her life. She didn’t want to live. She didn’t think it through. She made a wrong choice. She wanted to be courageous, but the reality was far too overwhelming. She could have just taken the pill and had the problem over with. She could have taken some poison. She could have gone to the doctor and have a procedure. She could have made a different choice. No one would appreciate her effort, no one cared about what was going to happen to her. She was sure that her parents would cut her off their money, as she had an extra-marital affair and she couldn’t tell who the father was. She was stupid. She didn’t want the child. She didn’t want it in her life and in her future. She couldn’t be more unhappy that moment and she begged some higher power for death.
But death didn’t happen. What happened the next night was the pain. It was the worst pain she had ever experienced in her life. It was worse than all the period pains she had ever had, all the painful cramps or knife cuts she had ever done to herself accidentally.
All was just a blur. Apparently, he called for a taxi and somehow she managed to get inside the car. Barely conscious, she was left at the door of the hospital, then she entered the hall and she was taken care of. She wondered later on how she survived the twelve hours of childbirth. The pain of pushing the child through her uterus made her feel torn apart by a monstrous human head. She begged for painkillers, no one even paid attention to what she was saying. She pushed, it hurt, and over and over again she was overwhelmed by what was happening to her.
When it was over, they gave her the baby. It was a boy. A healthy boy, crying in the grimace of unhappiness. She didn’t fall in love. She treated it as an unwelcomed gift and she faked the smile. Nothing happened the next day when he was given to her to feed. Nothing happened a week after that when they were sent home as everything was fine with both the child and the mother. She didn’t feel anything. She showed him the boy as she entered the flat.
‘It was the worst day of my life,’ she said honestly about the childbirth.
He didn’t understand. She didn’t understand his enthusiasm when he was looking at the child through the keyhole. She started making use of his willingness to do anything with the baby. She found strange excuses to leave the flat and she asked him to change him and take care of him. She prayed for the crib death or some sort of unhappy accident that would give her back the freedom she needed so badly. But every time she came back, the boy was fed, changed and well-taken care of. She didn’t even want to touch him. She couldn’t bear his cries at night. Sometimes she just put the plugs in her ear and pretended to sleep, praying that he would cry his lungs out. Sometimes she left him with the child for days. They both did just fine.
And one day she packed all her things, took all her money, put the fed child in the crib and left a note.
‘Have a nice life. Both of you.’
She found another room, in a different city. She found another university, and after summer she came back to her studies. She found another boyfriend, who dreamed of becoming a vet. He never mentioned that her stomach bore the signs of some past event. Maybe he suspected something, but she was kind enough never to ask about his past, so he didn’t ask about hers. She never returned to that place, that flatmate and that room. She never returned to that little boy. She didn’t want to think about the child as the thought made her unhappy. When her boyfriend mentioned children, she changed the subject. From then on he usually talked about animals.
And when she woke up in the middle of the night and looked at the crib, the teddy bear, and her stomach, she so desperately wanted to die, she cried silently the biggest amount of tears she had ever shed in her life. She didn’t want to live. She didn’t think it through. She made a wrong choice. She wanted to be courageous, but the reality was far too overwhelming. She could have just taken the pill and had the problem over with. She could have taken some poison. She could have gone to the doctor and have a procedure. She could have made a different choice. No one would appreciate her effort, no one cared about what was going to happen to her. She was sure that her parents would cut her off their money, as she had an extra-marital affair and she couldn’t tell who the father was. She was stupid. She didn’t want the child. She didn’t want it in her life and in her future. She couldn’t be more unhappy that moment and she begged some higher power for death.
But death didn’t happen. What happened the next night was the pain. It was the worst pain she had ever experienced in her life. It was worse than all the period pains she had ever had, all the painful cramps or knife cuts she had ever done to herself accidentally.
All was just a blur. Apparently, he called for a taxi and somehow she managed to get inside the car. Barely conscious, she was left at the door of the hospital, then she entered the hall and she was taken care of. She wondered later on how she survived the twelve hours of childbirth. The pain of pushing the child through her uterus made her feel torn apart by a monstrous human head. She begged for painkillers, no one even paid attention to what she was saying. She pushed, it hurt, and over and over again she was overwhelmed by what was happening to her.
When it was over, they gave her the baby. It was a boy. A healthy boy, crying in the grimace of unhappiness. She didn’t fall in love. She treated it as an unwelcomed gift and she faked the smile. Nothing happened the next day when he was given to her to feed. Nothing happened a week after that when they were sent home as everything was fine with both the child and the mother. She didn’t feel anything. She showed him the boy as she entered the flat.
‘It was the worst day of my life,’ she said honestly about the childbirth.
He didn’t understand. She didn’t understand his enthusiasm when he was looking at the child through the keyhole. She started making use of his willingness to do anything with the baby. She found strange excuses to leave the flat and she asked him to change him and take care of him. She prayed for the crib death or some sort of unhappy accident that would give her back the freedom she needed so badly. But every time she came back, the boy was fed, changed and well-taken care of. She didn’t even want to touch him. She couldn’t bear his cries at night. Sometimes she just put the plugs in her ear and pretended to sleep, praying that he would cry his lungs out. Sometimes she left him with the child for days. They both did just fine.
And one day she packed all her things, took all her money, put the fed child in the crib and left a note.
‘Have a nice life. Both of you.’
She found another room, in a different city. She found another university, and after summer she came back to her studies. She found another boyfriend, who dreamed of becoming a vet. He never mentioned that her stomach bore the signs of some past event. Maybe he suspected something, but she was kind enough never to ask about his past, so he didn’t ask about hers. She never returned to that place, that flatmate and that room. She never returned to that little boy. She didn’t want to think about the child as the thought made her unhappy. When her boyfriend mentioned children, she changed the subject. From then on he usually talked about animals.
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