The first tentative touch was involuntary and the first panicky intake of air instinctive. The necessity of her bodily responses didn't occur to her and even if it had, it would have done nothing to alter the profound loss of safety and warmth that washed over her the moment she left the amniotic fluids.
She did not know how to feel, how to realise her impressions. Her hearing was the first sense to be activated; already while she had been floating in the safe, comfortable womb she had heard .... sounds. The sound of another heart beat. Reassuring, comforting, a quiet prenatal lullaby. She had also heard quiet voices and soft indeterminable tingles - all of which had played a considerable role in shaping her environment and basic brain function.
The explosion of high pitched voices and rough metallic sounds disturbed her deeply. She shuddered violently as the first squeal worked its way up through her somewhat moist throat. The scream was a shock to her already violated audio organs, yet it felt oddly comforting and familiar.
The light that penetrated her eyelids grew ever more persisting. She could make out random blotches of shadow and light - other than that ....... nothing.
The feeling of hanging head down increased to an annoying degree. She screamed louder in protest.
She knew not what and whom she was protesting against and towards. She knew only that screaming was the right thing to do.
The second time her umbilical cord was cut the intense pain lasted only shortly. She would be able to recall it in years to come, and she would even be able to describe it and pinpoint the precise chronology of the event.
She was standing in the driveway of her grandparents; her parents had just left her to stay in another town to study. She was essentially alone.
But she was more old now, more wise now, more evolved now. She knew the mechanisms of loss and lack, of love and longing. She did not allow the pain to command or control her.
As her eyes fixed on the back of her parents' car, it occurred to her that it would be preferable to divert her eyes before the car disappeared all together. She would see her parents later. There was time. She did not live with them any longer, however, she would always be able to seek out the dismembered umbilical cord and draw strength and inspiration from it.
So the pain was short.
But it was there.
A short burst of a deeply rooted sting, directly into the heart. The big muscle clenched and ostensibly squeezed every drop of blood out of the cordiac chambers and left a dry, aching sensation.
She knew, of course, that this was not so. She employed the unshakeable rationality of youth and shook herself free of the feeling of impending doom. She was an adult. She would cope. She did not need the umbilical cord.
The third time her umbilical cord was cut there appeared to be no end to the breath taking pain that rippled through her like a merciless tide. This time she didn't have the advantage of the resilience of youth. This time she knew that third time is last time. This time there would be no umbilical remains she could return to and draw strength from. This time the cord was thrown on the pyre and burned together with the rest of her childhood, her past, her base. This time there was no time.
She looked down at her mother through a dim veil of tears. They did not flow. Her eyes clung to her mother's dying face, intent on greedily sucking in the very last impression of her umbilical cord. Every molecule was accounted for, every scent was smelled, every dot per inch was seen and remembered, every square millimetre of the dying skin touched and savoured, every frail sound and deeply gulping breath heard and stored.
The dull grey eyes looked at her, trying desperately to cling onto the cord at the other end. She has a strong heart, the professionals said. She knew that. She had known that from the moment she first felt that very heart pump blood into her tiny prenatal veins. She grabbed her hand, trying to will her pulse to continue beating, trying to will the blood to continue flowing. Trying to return the favour. With each attempt her mother's pain increased, with each attempt her own pain quadrupled.
This time there was no time.
Her mother lived through the night with the daughter clinging to her hand, refusing to let go, insisting on accompanying her into the dark and undiscovered country. She brought her into life; she would bring her into death. Returning the favour.
When the mother died, she died gracefully with a fading whisper evaporating on her lips, her chest heaved once and then stopped its futile and desperate struggle to force air into the maimed lungs. Her daughter, being too exhausted to cry or feel pain anymore, glued her eyes to the beloved face as the soul left its features.
Tranquillity.
Tranquillity as the umbilical cord stopped pumping, as the last incision finally severed the mortal link.
What do you think? I need some feedback here, folks!
That was fun! Give me another story!
I'd like to try fanfic instead!
I far prefer paintings!
I want back to your main page!
