Young Writers Society

Hi guys, well here it is. And, it does get very mysterious at the end. But, don't worry, all your questions will be answered in the third part of this triology. Enjoy ( I hope...eek) lol

Dare to die

My labour began in the thirty-ninth week of my pregnancy.

Ten minutes prior I had been standing over the kitchen hob in my thinnest nightdress, sweat forming a glossy film upon my forehead. Crippling pangs of stinging pain rippled through my abdomen. I jabbed my nails into my palms, my knuckles turning a ghostly white, and continued preparing breakfast.

Not now. My labour can’t begin now, I thought. I knew the pillar of strength inside of me could not crumble. You see, Jehu would not tolerate laziness. If his morning meal was not on the table by eight o’clock, I would be at the receiving end of his fist. I knew it was imperative I battled through the pain.

A shimmering blanket of gold bubbled frantically in the pan. I dropped in four rounds of pink bacon. They sizzled as they hit the blazing hot melted butter.

With my hand perched upon my protruding belly, I wiped the sweat from off of my brow, and then reached for a spatula. I flipped the shrivelled thins of bacon one at a time, their edges dark and crisp.

I shot a glance behind me as I heard the slap of dainty footsteps approaching. Hyacinth entered into the kitchen, wearing a lacy pink nightdress, her pretty blonde hair dishevelled, loose around her shoulders. She yawned, stretched, and yanked out a chair from where it had been neatly aligned with the table, climbing upon it.

‘Don’t be so rough, Hyacinth,’ I scolded.

‘Sorry mother...’she replied, a certain irritancy lingering in her voice. ‘What’s for breakfast, Mother?’

‘A Sunday Treat: bacon!’ I exclaimed, attempting to enthuse my mood and subdue the agony.

Hyacinth carefully slid off the high wooden chair, and padded delicately towards me. ‘Mummy,’ she asked carefully, ‘Why has your nightdress turned red?’

I stared at her uncomprehendingly.

‘Look,’ she insisted, pointing. ‘Why had it turned red?’

With a sudden, terrified realisation, I wrenched my neck and gazed below. My heart skipped a beat. Thick crimson blood had soaked the lower half of my otherwise pristinely white nightgown. Horrified and numb with panic, I turned to Hyacinth.

The words upon my tongue were shoved aside as a scream of pure agony emanated from my mouth. It’s about to begin!

‘Run!’ I spluttered frantically: ‘go: fetch Doctor Millbrook...Run...NOW!’

***

‘Your wife needs a hospital, Mr Scout,’ Doctor Millbrook pleaded grimly, desperately.

Jehu was sat, head in hands, elbows resting upon the wooden kitchen table. He remained ignorantly silent.

‘Let me take her to the hospital, please!’ the Doctor implored once again, his tone urgent.

Jehu turned his head slightly to look behind him at the Doctor, snarled, spat to the floor, and purposefully shoved an empty beer bottle from the table. It fell, shattered into thousands of shiny glass shards.

‘Daddy: please!’ I heard Hyacinth whimpering, her tone girlish and vulnerable from her space sat beside the Doctor.

I could tell Jehu was drunk, as he always was. He wasn’t allowing Doctor Millbrook to fetch an ambulance, nor would he let Hyacinth be excused from the room. I knew not why: his radical and often purposeless actions often stemmed from alcohol.

‘It’s...alright...child...’ I thrust the words hastily from my mouth, panting wildly in-between gasps for air.

‘At least take your daughter out of the room!’ the Doctor cried exasperatedly toward Jehu. ‘She’s six years old, for God’s sake! She shouldn’t be present at her mother’s labour – Look, she’s terrified!

Jehu didn’t even flinch.

‘Take your daughter away, now,’ ordered the Doctor, this time with a defiant fierceness.

I heard Jehu rise, kick away his chair, and roughly shove Hyacinth from the room. He slammed the door behind him and yanked the key in the lock, leaving Hyacinth wailing on the other side. I wanted to run to my daughter, say, no, don’t cry, everything’s going to be okay! I simply could not. The child inside of me, eager to break free and breathe air, was not going to allow me.

My throat felt as coarse as sackcloth, the flesh of my groin as though it was being savagely clawed apart by a wild animal. I had my eyes permanently clenched shut, and I gripped a shaft of thick bark between my teeth. My body was dripping with moist sweat, my hair sticking in greasy wet tendrils to my forehead.

I could tell the birth was climaxing. The pain...the agony....it was becoming more and more intense by the second.

I let out the final scream.

***

I hadn’t meant to kill him. Or perhaps I had. I should’ve felt guilty. After all, I had murdered my own husband. But, quite disturbingly, I felt not an ounce of remorse.

I had felt powerful, supreme. It was sweet: that moment when I plunged the knife into his neck and red scarlet gushed from the open wound.

I acted on impulse. There was one chance, and I took it. For the first time in years, I felt free.

***

I wrenched Hyacinth along hastily and gripped my precious son to my bosom. The end was in sight, perhaps a mere twenty yards away. I had nearly made it, I was so close. So close.

That’s when I collapsed. The world around me faded. I had dared to run. Now I dared to die.