Hi!
I've edited the three chapters I've put up. Thanks to everyone who has commented and reviewed!! 
Tanya
Prologue
Moira Haney wrapped her arms protectively around her distended belly. She peered into dark alleys trying to judge whether it was safe to sleep in this alley or maybe the next. The cold wind picked up and she shivered in her flimsy coat, a coat meant for warmer days. She had hid her pregnancy for as long as she could; she had worn loose-fitting skirts and shirts, bathed after everyone else was in bed. Sure the water had been cold but she thought it was a small price to pay to keep her baby. Then one night, a week before, her mother had walked in as she was getting dressed and her gaze had gone from Moira’s horrified expression to her obvious pregnant belly. Her mother, a petite woman with surprising strength, had grabbed her daughter by the arm and had dragged her into the warm kitchen, screaming for her husband. Moira’s brothers and sisters must have heard all the commotion but they knew not to come and investigate what the screaming was about.
They demanded to know who the father was and Moira could only say, “His name is William.”
“William who? What’s his surname?”
Moira could only shake her head. Not that she refused to answer; she just didn’t know his surname. He had only told her his name was William. Her mother had slapped her on the head, certain her daughter was hiding the truth from her. But Moira wasn’t; she had only met William a score of times and she honestly didn’t know how or why she allowed him to bed her. Indeed, she didn’t remember giving him permission. She just remembered being on the street, smiling up at William, and then suddenly being in a bed in one of the neighbouring Inn’s.
William had told her that it had been pleasurable but she only remembered the pain. Before they left, he thanked her for the gift she had bestowed upon him, her virginity. Then, he had kissed her softly and said he’d come ask her parents for her hand in marriage. Elated, she had run home and when her mother asked where she had been, she lied and told her she had come across one of her friends.
A month after seeing William, he still hadn’t come to ask her hand in marriage and Moira realised she hadn’t had her monthly. She didn’t need to be told what that meant and she was terrified of the consequences: she was 14 years old, unmarried, no longer a virgin and pregnant. If her parents knew . . . But it took almost eight months for her parents to find out about her pregnancy. It was lonely, especially since she wanted to scream her joy at having a baby, but she imposed herself this solitude by refusing to give her baby up.
Her parents gave her two choices; either she got rid of the baby or they would get rid of her.
“It’s too late,” she had whispered, “I’m almost eight months pregnant.”
“Why, Moira, why would you go through with this? You must have known what our reaction would be!”
Deep down within herself, she had known that they would react this way. She had hoped that if she gave birth while still living under their roof, her parents would not reject her, would not refuse to care for her baby. After all, they were already ten living in that home, between the eight children and the parents; what was one more mouth to feed? She had wanted this baby, wanted someone to love her unconditionally. She was the eldest amongst her siblings, and her parents only used her to care for her brothers and sisters. She had had many suitors but her father turned them all away; they needed her to remain at home. Moira had despaired, thinking she would never leave home. Maybe, subconsciously, that is why she kept the baby. Her mind had found a way to escape.
Her parents told her that if she gave birth and then got rid of the baby, they might consider keeping her. Moira had refused; she was keeping her baby no matter what. Her parents were disgusted with her: how dare she ruin their lives by spreading her legs for any stranger passing down the street. The next morning they told her to pack her things and leave. They didn’t care where she went or how she would survive. Even if she died, they were indifferent because they thought they were teaching her a lesson.
Moira had left, head held high because shamefully lowering it would have meant her baby wasn’t wanted. But it was. Oh! How it was! Moira hadn’t dared go to one of her friends, she knew their parents would not approve just as hers hadn’t. For the past week she’d been sleeping wherever she could find a little shelter. Now, she was looking in alleys. As she peered from one dark alleyway to the next, she heard footsteps approach and soft laughter. She turned towards the sound and noticed a man and woman, heads bent close whispering urgently. Moira cocked her head as she stared at the man’s strut and realised that he was familiar to her. Painfully familiar.
“William!”
The couple abruptly stopped and the woman gasped; she hadn’t seen Moira. William took a step closer and asked “Who are you?”
She suddenly realised how dirty and filthy she was; she didn’t remember last time she had bathed. Feeling somewhat apprehensive, she took a step towards him, into the light and said, “It’s . . . it’s me, Moira.” A look of recognition crossed his handsome features but he turned away from her and, with his lady friend, kept walking.
“I don’t know any Moira’s,” He called over his shoulder.
Her eyes bright with unshed tears, her hand outstretched trying to halt him, greatly hurt from his rejection, she cried out, “But I’m carrying your child!”
The couple stilled once more. The woman turned wide eyes to the fifteen year old. William came back with a determined walk. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her roughly into the dark alley.
“Now listen to me you filthy whore, this child is not mine and you will never lay claim of it on me, do you understand me? Who knows how many times you spread your legs and for who before and after we met. If I ever see you again, if you ever mention this child being mine I will kill you.”
“But I’ve never. . . But it is your . . .”
Because the alley was so dark, she never saw the punch coming. But her face definitely felt it. In fact, he hit her so hard she heard two cracking sounds: one was her nose; the second was her skull when it hit the brick wall behind her. She crumpled to the ground and tried to regain her spirits but she was dizzy and nauseous and trying to fight the pull of unconsciousness. When the dizziness somewhat subsided, she glared up at the father of her child and with all the disdain she could muster she said, “Like it or not, you are this baby’s father. This is the last time I will mention it. I don’t want you or your help; I just needed you to know.”
“I warned you,” was all he said before punching her again. She hunched over, trying to protect her baby but his blows were landing everywhere, hard and fast. Moira heard a gasp and she turned her head to the right, and William’s fist connected with her ear. She screeched and tried to press a hand to her burning ear but she couldn’t coordinate her hands, couldn’t get them to lift. Bells resounded in her head as she tried to articulate her next words, “Please . . . Help.” Her voice was hoarse and she didn’t think the woman had heard. “Please help me.” She reached a bloody hand toward the woman, certain that she would not let her suffer any longer. Surely she would stop William? But she didn’t. With one hand pressed to her mouth, she backed up slowly from the alley, her eyes wide and glued to what was left of Moira’s face. This time unconsciousness claimed her without a fight.
* * *
Incredible, unbearable pain woke Moira. A high-pitched screaming sounded into the night, like that of a wounded animal and Moira realised the sound came from her. She cut off the screaming, but began panting instead. What is happening to me? Did he kill me, as promised? Why did I push him so much, she wondered, he could have hurt the baby . . . The baby!”
She was giving birth!
“No, no, no, no.” She chanted. She knew she couldn’t be dead, how could she feel this much pain and misery in Heaven? A thought occurred to her: what if I’m in hell? She looked around and with what little light that filtered in from the full moon, she established her whereabouts.
She was still in the alley. Pathetic sounds were now coming out of her; she was groaning and panting, then keening and crying. She had to calm down, calm down for the baby! But she couldn’t. She kept remembering the look of disgust and hatred on William’s face. The look of pleasure was the last thing she saw as he hit her over and over again; he was happy to be causing her pain.
As the sobbing surpassed all the other sounds, she put her hands to her face then gasped in utter disbelief. She couldn’t feel her nose anymore, not as it was; William had pounded it in. She felt a greasy substance on her face and knew it to be blood mixed with dirt and her tears. Suddenly, she started hyperventilating, her belly constricted painfully and, half-sprawled on the ground, sobbing, choking and gagging simultaneously, she knew she was going to die. Oh God, save my baby! If nothing else, please save it. As soon as her prayer was done, she heard a noise in the alley that brought her tears to an immediate stop. A shuffling sound approached her, and then an awful smell filled her senses. A figure loomed over her and she flinched away from it, certain in her delirium it was William coming back to finish her off.
Moira discovered the shuffling and smell actually came from a beggar man. He had probably been awakened by her screams of pain.
“Misses? Misses, I saw what the man did to you, I did Misses.”
A sharp burst of pain flashed through her tummy and she screamed. The crouched man gasped and fell back on his butt then immediately scrambled to her.
“Misses? What’s wrong? Where does it hurt?”
“My stomach . . . I’m . . . giving birth.” She was panting again and the pain was getting worse. She felt the blackness creeping up on her again and knew that she had to give birth quickly or risk losing her baby. She groped in the dark until she found the man’s arm and she held on to it for dear life.
“I . . . please . . . I need help.”
The man didn’t hesitate. He wrenched himself loose of her, scooped her up in frail but capable arms and ran for her life. He stumbled once but caught himself in time and ran even faster. He knew where the doctor lived, the one that sometimes visited the alleys to care for the very sick. He didn’t know how long he ran, only that he was surprised his arms didn’t tire. The woman stopped talking and her head rolled from side to side. He tightened his hold on her so her head could be cradled against his body. Sometimes, she jolted out of her stupor and soft sounds would escape her mouth, but most of the time she was quiet and that scared the man. A woman going through child birth should never be quiet.
He finally made it to the doctor’s house and unable to use his hands, started kicking at the door. He kicked and kicked some more until it finally opened to an older man with white hair and alert eyes. The doctor was used to seeing people at any time of day and he quickly ushered the homeless man and his ward in. Panting, he explained what had happened, what he had seen and told the doctor the woman was giving birth. As if to prove his words, she woke and let out the worst scream of all. It was long and seemed endless. The doctor took the broken girl from the man’s arms and gently set her down on his kitchen table. His wife came down and, equally used to being disturbed, immediately lit candles and brought her husband his tools.
They spoke to Moira, coached her through her breathing but she did not respond to them. Her eyes were feverish, she was delirious. She was screaming, to her parents seemingly, that she would not get rid of her baby, it was hers to keep. They pieced together her story throughout her delirium. The doctor turned to the man who had brought her in, “Did she tell you her name?”
“No, and the man that beat her didn’t call her by her name, he called her bad names.”
The doctor didn’t insist, he didn’t want to know what the bastard had called her. Bad enough he could see what he’d done to her, her face was a mess, the man couldn’t even tell if she had been pretty or not, couldn’t tell the color of her eyes she was so completely battered.
After one hour of mopping her brow, speaking softly and reassuringly to her, the young woman expelled her baby. Still fevered, she had been chanting softly, “Please God, save my baby, my baby, please save my baby.” Over and over again until, hesitantly, the doctor’s wife approached the young mother with the baby.
“It’s a boy,” she whispered softly, unsure she would be understood.
But Moira’s eyes opened, the words had seemed to penetrate her mind. She painstakingly turned on her side and the wife laid the tiny bundle in the woman’s arms. She laid her weary head on her arm and stared at her baby’s beautiful face. Every single detail of him was now etched in her memories and a fierce pride came over her. She had gone through hell for him and she felt certain, suddenly, that her tiny son was destined for greatness. Odd, she had thought, but she knew it to be true. Now, she needed to find him a name.
“Noah. His name is Noah,” She spoke so softly that the doctor’s wife had to lean in to hear what the young woman had said.
“Noah,” the older woman repeated.
The young mother smiled gratefully, curled her arm tighter around her infant son, glanced at him for the last time, closed her eyes and breathed her last breath.
As her dying breath left her body, her son raised strangely alert eyes to her battered face and let out his first cry.
Gosh, that's like, one year older than me! Yikes!
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