Memories, a confessiona.

There are some people out there who may not agree with my publishing this here (and it was never my initial intention when I wrote it all those years ago), but I have for nothing more than personal reasons. Like it or loath it, I didn't write this to be sold or traded ... I wrote it for therapeutic purposes only. It's unedited, unchecked, and stands, I guess, as a micro piece of work. I doubt I will ever add to this. If you read it you may understand why.

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M E M O R I E S

Even after seven years he still finds himself in that room; that pristine, clinical, white room. Not all the time, but sometimes. This man also tells people he is over the worst of it now. He likes to think he is over the worst of it, but, of course, he’s not, and he knows it. He only wishes it was.

He curses the memories locked inside his head.

He still finds himself watching the young girl curled on the single bed as her face contorts into soundless tears. Then he looks at the basket at the foot of the bed, never quite wanting to look inside but also knowing the inevitability that it will happen. He does this repeatedly; staring from girl to crib and back again with a numbness he never thought possible. And he wants to cry, this man, but he doesn’t because if he does then he knows he may never stop.

The door to the white room opens then, and nurse walks in and allows the sound of baying newborns to filter through and shatter the silence. She doesn’t think twice about this, she simply smiles and asks if they’re both ok as she tends to the young girl curled on the bed. The man replies that he is, though, secretively, he was sure she knew he was lying.

Before the nurse leaves, she stares into the silent crib and coos. A moment later, she smiles and makes uncomfortable conversation before leaving. He’s pretty sure she only does this because she doesn’t know what else to do ... but he would rather have her silence than her chatter.

Silence was better.

And so his eyes fall back onto the crib. His heart pounds and his eyes begin to scorch, but, still, he cannot move. He sees a little; perhaps more than the moments had prepared him for, but he doesn’t want to close his eyes. Not just yet, because it’s his boy. He doesn’t want to see the purple/white face, nor the patch of cheek where the flesh had slid off a little during birth, he only wants to see his boy. More than that, he wants his boy to cry.

It never happens.

It never will.

There would only be silence.

As the memories begin to recede, he remembers one last thing: ice. Only then he would remember shuffling through the corridors with his head bowed, the sound of screaming of newborns undoing him one stitch at a time as he passed them. He also remembered the woman behind the desk. She always smiles as he approaches and she would say, “is there anything I can do for you, honey?” or “we have ice ready for you.”

It’s important to keep the baby on ice, they tell him. Especially as the room gets so hot.

Now he closes his eyes, the memory almost faded to black, and something deep within him explodes. He hears a tiny voice begin to scream at the front of his mind, and it keeps on screaming until there is nothing left.