A very short story (5 parts) with a plot twist you will not expect.
Inspired by true events, unfortunately. But I hope I can change the way you think about them.
(pixabay)
Part Four
The dark windowless room doesn't help me to distinguish between day or night.
It makes wish that I had kept any track on the number of times I got meals; to get a sense of the number of weeks -months, years?- that have passed since I got here.
I would like to ask any of those men- when is it going to end? And from where those horrible cries, that sound so familiar, are coming from?
But of course, I will not ask. They will not understand; they are not here to listen, to feel...
And yet, a tiny portion of me longs for the moment a human will come inside, so I will not be completely alone.
It's always the hope that survives the longest, no matter how hard it's being crushed with every blow.
Most of the time I stare at the wall, or at my tied legs; seeing my bones more clearly with each passing day... except for my stomach, which gets bigger. And bigger.
A baby.
The only one I have in this world now. This human being. Pure. Good. Innocent.
Finally, someone to talk with, to tell stories about nature, sunlight and water; stories of freedom.
I believe the stories feed my baby. Because he keeps growing inside; for me, for both of us.
And when he comes out to the filthy air of the room, right from between my tied legs, on a floor of dust and blood, I see him.
I can feel nothing but happiness.
I stretch my hands as much as the chains allow me, and they let me hold him. Hold someone...
He must know the stories are real, that I had never lied to him... because I have never said they will be our stories. Our reality.
His cry echoes through the gray room, and Mommy has to calm him down, hold him tighter, protect him.
But Mommy can't push them away, can't keep him, hold him a bit longer. Just a bit more. For a moment more...
So I wrap the darkness instead, and the silence without him is louder than any cry or scream could ever be.
Next time the door opens, he doesn't come back- instead an empty bottle hits me. So I fill it with my milk, his milk.
At least, they take care of him.
And then another bottle. And another one...
And one more. More, more, more!
They ask for too much, I start to wonder how many babies do they hold: surely not only mine, probably not even just five, or ten... or more?
And another bottle, and again, and again...
When I refuse, they force me.
They take everything of me and they take all of me.
Until, my life is the only thing left to take.
