Say Their Name

 She lay in silence, feeling the rise and fall of her emotions as they mingled and then separated. Loneliness, anger, disbelief, sadness, more feelings than she could even put a name to, yet at the same time an intense emptiness. She had the scar on her abdomen, but she didn't get the prize. Yesterday, she was full of love, full of excitement and anticipation, but today - today there was nothing. Yesterday she felt kicks and wriggles and hiccups. Today she felt nothing.

The stages of grief. Yes, she'd heard all about those. All her feelings were normal, that social worker had said. Right now she felt anger. Anger at the cruelty of having to listen to other women's babies cry, hearing their happy conversations when friends and family came to visit. Other women, sharing their stories and comparing how big their babies were and how many hours it took to give birth. The midwives were kind, finding her a single room away from most of the activity of the ward, but she could still hear it. All the joy and excitement that one would expect in a place where precious new life was brought into the world.

She wanted to join in. The little card was the same, it had all the details of her little girl's birth. The time, the weight, her date of birth. Her name. She had one. They had picked it out weeks earlier, after many cheerful arguments over a baby name app. But she couldn't bear to even look at the card. Her pain was too great.

The memories. They were always there. She didn't ask for them to come, but she couldn't escape them. She relived the events over and over in her mind, feeling the lingering agony that prevented her forgetting, even for a moment, the gut-wrenching, nauseating reality. The gnawing worry as they arrived and explained that the baby wasn't moving. Anxiety as they were rushed into a room. A flash of hope as they heard a heartbeat, that reassuring galloping sound on the monitor. The frowns of the doctor as she looked at the printout. The desperate fear as they were whisked to the operating theatre, where there were so many people, rushing around, all in the name of getting the baby out fast. The claustrophobia of the mask descending over her face - there was no time for that spinal she had been told about. Then the horror as she woke to her husband's tear-streaked face, when he had to give her the terrible news, and their world came crashing down.

She waited desperately for sleep to descend, as her mind flashed through it all again and again and again. She couldn't even cry. The first time you hold your baby is not meant to be the last. The ache, oh the constant ache, the heaviness nagged her every moment as she willed sleep to come. It was raw, it was primal. And it was hers.

Diary of an Introvert

The bus stop in mid afternoon. A familiar place on the side of the road. A mess of buildings rise around me, extension after extension on the original building as people’s needs grew. Different architectural eras are apparent in the mish-mash of different, yet equally impressive multi-storey buildings, coming together somehow to form a functional whole. The road feels almost like a tunnel, or a capsule, embracing me in its cold touch of concrete and steel while the grey sky hovers far above.

It’s annoying to sit here after rain, because cars drive past and splash me as they whizz through the puddles in the dips of the uneven pavement. Drivers are oblivious to their selfish actions. I would drive myself, but there is never any parking and it costs a bomb anyway. Easier to let someone else do the driving. I’ve also never cared for the heavy traffic that always plagues this area. It seems that everyone wants to visit their relatives right on shift change, so you can never get in or out without a long wait.

It's not quite peak hour, but there's plenty of people finishing work already in this 24/7 world. I follow the same routine every day - I sit down in the shelter, I read my book. Every now and then, I look up from my book and watch the rain or the sun or the wind, I ponder life. People walk by without even a glance in my direction. It's as if I don't exist. That's fine by me. Social distance is welcome in an emotionally intense job like mine. I always check my scrub pocket again, just to make sure that I haven't accidentally left the drug keys in there. As always, it's empty. I then breathe a small sigh of relief because I don’t want to make the long walk back to my building to hand them over. This is a ritual I have performed thousands of times, and now I wait for my bus. I know it’s due any second now.

People walk past. Different ones each day. Every now and then one will stop and sit in the bus shelter with me. I learn a lot from watching these people. A young girl, usually with a variety of brightly coloured ribbons in her hair is a regular sight. She skips along the footpath, always urged to hurry up by her frazzled-looking mother. The girl would have stopped to talk if she was allowed. I see them most days, always in a rush. I guess the mother has poor time management, or perhaps she is anxious about lateness. A bit like the new grads I have been mentoring recently. Then there's the baker. I know he's a baker from his stained apron, it's original pigment long gone these days, replaced with the evidence of many early mornings in front of an oven. He smells of fresh bread and dried fruit. An image of hot cross buns often flashes through my mind. He usually offers a smile but has never said anything. Neither have come past today, but then again, I am running late, thanks to a critical incident, and arrived at the bus stop with seconds to spare.

I have barely sat down and opened my book, a classic icon of English literature, when my bus arrives, its windscreen wipers making a mechanical swish-thud sound as they scrape the water away. My immersion in the much-read pages is short-lived as I stand up to board the bus for my journey home, where relief awaits in the form of a hot shower and a warm milo. Rivulets run down the blue and orange livery of the vehicle, dripping onto me as I scoot up the three steps to board. It's not too full today. A handful of people are out in this weather, the usual essential workers heading home. Some look up and smile, others just stare out the window. One is reading, I notice that it is one of my favourite books in his hands. I slowly walk to my usual seat as the bus moves off, swaying slightly to keep my balance as the driver pulls out into traffic. It's warm in here, but I will keep my coat on as a barrier against the world.

I sit down, open my book again, and instantly travel back to that distant place. My mind is quickly enthralled in the story, a welcome relief from the realities of life.

The Escape

She gently patted her abdomen, imagining the life budding within. Nobody could tell yet. Nobody had to know yet. As the weeks ticked by, her secret would be out, but for now, the serendipity of the situation was hers alone to enjoy. Luck didn’t come to her often.

They would not be pleased. In fact, they would think it scandalous. She didn't care. This was her private joy, a secret that brought her great happiness. This could be her ticket to freedom, a way to cut ties with a life that she did not want and move on to her own independence. There was also great danger with a secret like this. Her strictly conservative family were known for their heavy punishments, for even minor infractions. She would do anything to get away from their iron grip. Their oppressive rules felt like a heavy weight, suffocating the light within her. She held onto her hope as she counted down the days until she would reveal everything, silently planning her escape.

She hid in her room, alone as always, mulling over the best way to share her secret. It was such a bland space. There was none of her personality here at all. The bareness of her walls steeled her resolve to follow this through. She had never been allowed to express her individuality. Everything was rules and regulations and boredom. Even her shelves, full of books, were filled with only what they allowed her to have. She had never read a single one.

Nothing useful came to mind from her deliberations. No matter how she told them, it wasn't going to be pretty. Instead, she allowed her mind to wander to the excitement she had felt when she had met the new boy at school. There had been such a flood of emotions as she explored her relationship with him. It had been difficult with all the strict rules that she had to follow, but the thrill of being with him far outweighed the fear and anxiety over their forbidden love. She soon returned to imagining the life growing within her, the product of their lust and her ticket to liberty. A fortuitous secret that they shared together. Anxious questions surfaced in her head. How long could she hide it? Would it be enough time to be ready? She didn't know, and she didn't care. As long as she was free.

She endured the violent tirade from her family. She endured their cruel words and declaration of disowning. The words did not hurt one bit. The bruises did, but they were worth it. She patiently endured that first long night alone with youthful optimism buoying her heart. Nothing would stop her now. She was free. Only one more night and she would be with him again, this time for good. Their carefully planned escape now lay ahead of her. She had gambled her life, and could only hope that he really would be there to journey with her.

What We Leave Behind

 Alternate title: The Forgotten

The big grey horse looked miserably over his stable door, waiting hungrily for his breakfast, although he knew it probably wouldn’t come. All the others in the row had been fed. Mistral, a big black mare, Danny, a chestnut pony, Henry, another grey like himself, Pirouette, a flashy brown show mare, and Pete, a small bay gelding, were all busy devouring their breakfast – but not Billy. He looked forlornly about him, trying to find even a wisp of lucerne that had, perhaps, blown his way on the slight breeze that ruffled his once-white mane.

His tail too, had once been white, and the rest of him covered in a soft, shiny coat that felt like satin. Now though, all was hidden beneath a layer of dirt and dried sweat. Underneath that layer, his ribs were beginning to show through the build-up, as his condition faded away. Billy had once been a girl’s best friend, a pony club champion, until that girl discovered boys. Now he remained all but forgotten, fading away quietly in his little stall.

Had Billy been a person, he probably would have wondered why no-one fed him, why no-one ever groomed him, and why someone wasted their money on a stable for him when they clearly could not be bothered looking after him. He was always lonely, locked up all day while the others went out to the field, except for the odd occasion when a passing child patted him on the way to their riding lesson, or perhaps offered a carrot, although his old teeth found those difficult to chew. He longed for the days when his girl’s laughter rang out around him, long summer days when they’d be splashing in the dam, or those weekends when they would be off to a competition, or those long, peaceful rides through the nearby forest with their mates.

A girl walked down the stable row, going about her business cleaning the stalls once the other horses went out for the day. Billy saw her often when she mucked out. Sometimes she would have a treat for him, but not today. He nickered to her, hoping for a small scrap of something, anything would do. Without a word, she stopped outside Billy’s stable, and, looking around to make sure nobody else was nearby, quickly unlatched the door. She swung it open, before silently walking away.

Billy stood for a moment, staring at freedom. He took a tentative step forward, expecting a reprimand, then quickly trotted out, heading for the nearest patch of grass he could see. Despite being somewhat dry and brown in the midsummer heat, that patch looked lush, green and inviting to Billy. He took a few mouthfuls, then with a sudden burst of energy, lay down and rolled, relieving the many built-up itches beneath his dirty exterior. He then stood up, shook himself all over, and began to pick at the grass once more.

His freedom, however, was short-lived. The girl who had released him soon returned, a sad expression on her face, carrying a halter and lead rope. She buckled the halter about Billy’s head, and led him slowly back to his stall. He ambled along slowly, suddenly remembering that he was an old horse with many aches and pains and could not move very fast anymore.

‘I’m sorry, old mate,’ she whispered to him as they returned to the dark musty box, ‘I wish I could give you more, but I would be in big trouble if I did.’

Billy let out a sigh when he found no food in his feed bin, almost as if he’d never expected it, but still hoped anyway. He couldn’t possibly understand why nobody could help him. His owners refused assistance and caused trouble if anyone tried to interfere, despite the efforts of all who knew Billy.

The girl patted Billy and left, locking the door as she went. He sadly resigned himself to starvation and neglect once more. He watched the girl walk away, staring after the only person who cared about an old, grey horse.