Gifting

JournalWord: Protect me from what I want.

***

3 hours ago, I felt the most excruciating pain of my life. Physically, that is. Emotionally, I felt it an hour ago. I should never have agreed to hold her. I should have turned down the nurse’s offer the moment she entered the room. Now, I can’t pull my arms away from my body. 

Her body is so small; so much more human than what I had been believing for the last nine months. She has a tiny mouth, and a nose that looks like his. I could see the tips of her tiny fingers peeking out of the folds of her pink blanket, and something fluttered in me when I saw all ten, itty-bitty digits. Is that what a mother should feel? The flutter and joy of a newborn? 

I would think so when Margaret and Jerry rushed in. They were beyond happy and Margaret was bright red in the face, exhilarated as if she were the one who had just given birth. They’re going to take my baby away from me. I remember wishing, back when I had first met her and her husband, that she would be the one to go through with this; to go through the pain of labor, to go through with the decision, and to finally have her own child. 

Oh, how I wished it could have been her instead of me. But when they came through that door, anxious to see the person I was giving to them, every dreadful wish of never having this moment became a shattered mess. I don’t want to give my baby up. I am being irrational, I know, but at this moment, all of my concrete decisions blows up into dust. 

I was so scared to give her to them and I squeezed my little girl too hard. She screamed and I panicked, ashamed of how terrible a mother I would have been. Margaret picked her up and cooed to her, like a mother should, and I could only watch as she stopped the crying. Jerry thanked me over and over, and I couldn't even look at him. I felt like I was betraying him for thinking such ludicrous thoughts. 

I couldn't keep her. There isn't any logical reason why a homeless teen like me should be given the gift of a child. I say that but I can’t stop thinking about her tiny hands, curled around Margaret’s ring finger. They thanked me countless times and cried over their new baby for the next fifteen minutes. I couldn't bring myself to look at them, for fear I would crush their dream, crush their chance at a family with a couple words. 

This is for the best, I repeated to myself. This is the best for her. Finally they were ushered out of the room by the same deceitful nurse who scrambled my rationality. However, before they left, they asked me for a name, and although I had continuously spoken of my need to disconnect all ties, my lips moved to form one hurtful word: Allison. 

They seemed taken aback at the mention of my mother, knowing the hate I had for her, for her abandonment. Sitting in my hospital bed, arms still holding my rib cage up, I feel lighter. It might be the loss of six pounds, and it may not be because I've finally forgiven my mother. I can’t tell, but I hope this feeling will leave, because now I've got nothing to fill in the space.    

***

Wanting what we can't have, even if it was our decision to not want it in the first place.

~mera.

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A Tiny Tune

JournalWord: When a misfit comes home.

***

He stumbles into the cafe, slamming shut the front door from the peeking rays of the morning. The jumbled chime of the bells over the door announces his arrival and he grunts, clutching his head at the sharp pain the sound induces. 

He shuffles one of the tables, knocking down a chair from it's upside door position on the tabletop. It's too early for anyone to be up. Dan isn't even up yet to turn down the chairs for the day.

Placing the chair on it's legs, he falls into the wooden seat, ducking his head under his arms as he places them on the table. He attempts to ignore the pounding at the back of his head with whispered curses. No one messes with him. No one should mess with him, he corrects. It's their own goddamn fault for bringing a bat to a fist fight, he scowls. 

So he fights the beginning of pain, knowing if he doesn't sleep now, the bruises will be keeping him up for days. Dan will know, then, and when he knows he's been in another fight, he'll have to be kicked out. 

He doesn't know why he fights. Dan should have kicked him out months ago. Coming home every week with a new set of bruises and gang members out for revenge, he's endangering Diana and the cafe for being here.

Damn, he curses again, a fist meeting the wooden surface of the table. A jagged pain runs through his knuckles for his efforts and he swears quietly, praying he doesn't have any broken bones or fractures. Then he wouldn't be able to help out. Then he wouldn't be able to teach Diana her lessons. 

He cradles his hand in his lap, hiding his eyes in his other forearm, wiping away ungrateful tears. He doesn't even deserve to cry, not for his actions, and not for his broken promises. He's still mentally cursing himself when tiny pattering of feet sneak down the stairs into the dining hall.  

He wipes his eyes again and plucks his head up from his arm to the stumbling tune of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. He watches as she struggles over the keys of the old upright piano. Her tiny fingers flutter and stretch to reach the ivory keys, tripping over others in the obstacle to complete the children's tune. 

She finally finishes the song and spins on the bench, her nightgown twirling along with her long hazel braid. She beams when she sees he's been watching. "Are you feeling a little better now?" she asks, hopeful.

"Not in the least," he gruffly replies at the child. Her smile falters and he adds, "yeah, so play it again for me."

He drops his head back down onto his arm, hiding his smile in the crook of his arm when she starts to play the tune again, this time with an exited gusto. He stays awake knowing she'll be lonely when he falls asleep. The pain will be worth it, he vows. It's the only equivalent to the sweet serenade of an angel.

***

Love, love, love misfits!!

I'm realizing I like writing from a limited third-person point of view. Seems to feel right.

Let me know what you think!

~mera

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Morbid, much?

JournalWord: Truant

***

There he is. 

A school-uniformed, cocky teenage truant!

He tugs at his striped tie, languidly stopping beside my bush in front of my house.

Acting suspicious, tossing his head back and forth. Faking to flip his hair out of his eyes, he checks around him, making sure the coast is clear.

With a grin, he picks a ripe, heavy blackberry off my bush. He has the audacity to roll the berry over his tongue, cheekily, watching my window as if he knows I hide there.

So smugly self-assured. 

I scowl as he continues picking, stuffing his cheeks until crushed juices spill from his lips and down his chin. 

He finally eats his fill, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away the evidence of his thievery before finding my window again and smirking.

He leaves my violated bush, hands tucked into his pockets, a skip in his step at his victory. 

Watching his retreating figure as I have for the last three days, witnessing for the second time his reoccurring theft, I can only smile.

I turn to the clock, grinning before turning back to regard my towering blackberry bush and it's alluring, shiny berries.

The poison has dried quite nicely, I note, counting down the minutes before the chemicals kick in.

***

Just a quick story of just-do's.

(What should I write next? The second part of YGMM, perhaps? You tell me.)

Delightfully,

mera

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