[.}how to start a life{.][>oneshot<]
May 23, 2012 20:55:38 GMT -5
Post by WT on May 23, 2012 20:55:38 GMT -5
((I am a sixteen-year-old who knows nothing about pregnancy or childbirth but what she has read. If this is unbelievable as all get out, please don't hate me too much. x'D
I probably also should not: experimental writing style is experimental and may be odd. But I had fun with it.
Now here. Have a baby.))
Wake up early, feeling unusually queasy. Don't worry, as this has started happening more often lately. Expect nothing—why should you, nearly seven weeks early? Simply toss a robe over your nightgown and go to the kitchen to start brewing water for the ginger tea that you have come to rely on. Clean while you wait for the water to heat, so as to avoid giving yourself idle time in which to think; you usually keep your house neat and your kitchen particularly so, but there are always little things to do, a shelf in the pantry that's gotten out of hand or some cinnamon sticks you haven't had the chance to grind up and put away in the spice cabinet. Deal with these now, chattering all the while with your rock and various pieces of the kitchen.
When the pains start, recognize almost immediately that something is wrong. It should not be hard; it is too soon and they are too fast, not at all what you were told to expect. Take enough time to put out the flame beneath the kettle, then regret the delay as another contraction grips you. Cling to the counter as you stagger, gasping with pain, from the kitchen. Whether you think you can keep your balance or not, use the wall to stabilize your path to the front door.
Stumble from your house and, working on autopilot because it hurts too much to think properly, try to make it to one of the other houses in the Victor's Village. When you fall and can't get up because you're writhing too much, don't worry. Your screams are loud and shrill enough to draw someone. Look at who it is, but don't wonder whether you know them; just take their hand, struggle to your feet, and be grateful that someone is saving you.
There are no true doctors in District Twelve, but there are apothecaries, healers, people who learn what they can about saving lives. With the help of your newfound friend, limp to one of these and lean heavily against her doorframe, breathing heavily as tears streak down your face. Construct explanations as the door opens and a dark face peers out, but stay silent; save your energy for tamping down on the screams as they get you inside and on a flat surface. Listen to the urgent voices swirling around you: "I found her like this." "Look at the size of her, it's too early." "She's so tiny—has she been eating properly?" "Boiling water, someone shut up and get me boiling water!"
Ignore the guilt. No, don't try to stammer out a half-formed sentence about how you should've eaten more. That is the past now, and you will have plenty of time to think on it later, should the child die or live to be small and unhealthy. Instead, listen to the one voice (or is it several?) that you hear in your mind, the one saying, Fight for me, Aranica. Fight like you fought in the Arena and then some.
Realize, as another wave of pain wracks you and makes you scream, exactly how apt an analogy this is. Realize that this hurts more than anything physical you have ever felt, even losing a limb. Try not to let yourself be transported back to that time, because lingering on the past is unhealthy, but go anyway, because right now the past is actually the lesser evil. Swim through fevered memories made solid; feel your arm fall off, feel a blade in your hand and an arrow in your shoulder, pull the trigger of a dart gun at a shadowy reflection of yourself in the hopes that doing so will end this before it began. Hate the Capitol, because their drugs could take away this pain and ensure your child's survival. Love the Capitol, because in inventing their drugs, they saved untold thousands of women from this agony. Wish Mace was with you. Thank your lucky stones he isn't.
Eventually, let all the thoughts and images fade into darkness, a mute nothingness broken only by your own shrieking. Eventually, let go of that as well, fading into comatose silence.
As a sheet settles over you and a thump (someone sitting down?) hits your ears, feel not joy or relief, but terror. Know that "You'll live" is supposed to put you at ease, but worry about it. Wonder why there is no crying and force your eyes open. Start to squirm in your bed, only to have restraining hands appear from nowhere and hold you down before you can sit up.
Shake your head. Find a voice somewhere within you, one that hasn't yet been ripped by screams or dissolved by pain. "Did...?" Try to figure out how to finish the sentence. Implore the healer with your eyes instead, because you cannot find words. You're too tired, and too scared by the woman's blood-soaked hands, to keep going. Like the pain, the blood seems to hearken back to earlier times—blood in the water, on the screen, on your skin. There has been so much death in your life that another seems inevitable; understandably, you do not want to face that.
Feel your breath catch in disbelief as the woman leans over, then lifts a tiny figure, saying, "Beats me how, Aranica Petros, but you're a mother." Disregard how small and quiet it seems and focus on how normally odd-looking it is, all those squishy pink limbs curled up together. Dare to smile. Reach out with one hand, needing to feel the warmth of this unbelievably tiny body so you can be sure it's real. Smile wider in thanks as the stranger who saved your lives bends down and, with a gentleness you never would have guessed from her rough words, places one of the baby's hands in yours. Trace it gingerly, desperately, lovingly; feel the contours of its tiny curved fingers and the still-damp warmth of its skin. Fall in love.
Whisper, Look, rock. Look.
Hear the clouds try to break in, and repel them with a rage that would frighten you if you weren't so relieved, a rage borne from your joy in this moment and a mother's determination to never, ever let harm near your little one. Hear your rock, confused as ever by human affairs but responding to the pride and love in your voice, answer, I see, Aranica.
Panic as the healer pulls away, taking your baby with you. Resent her barking laugh until she says, "Relax, Petros. In a couple hours, you can hold your baby and I can give you a good long tongue-lashin' about your nutrition, and then we can talk about what he'll need. Right now, you needs to be restin'. Sleep a bit, I'll look after him." Know from your bone-deep weariness that she's right, but watch anyway as she takes your child to the room's only door and pokes her head out, calling to you-don't-know-who: "Miracle children, both of 'em! They're gonna live. It's a boy. Don't any of you try to name him for her like the last bunch'a twits that waited in this room." Don't relax until she closes the door on the excited hum of voices (how does news travel so fast sometimes?) and returns to her chair by your bedside. Then, and only then, close your eyes and allow yourself to slip into a dreamless sleep.
I probably also should not: experimental writing style is experimental and may be odd. But I had fun with it.
Now here. Have a baby.))
Wake up early, feeling unusually queasy. Don't worry, as this has started happening more often lately. Expect nothing—why should you, nearly seven weeks early? Simply toss a robe over your nightgown and go to the kitchen to start brewing water for the ginger tea that you have come to rely on. Clean while you wait for the water to heat, so as to avoid giving yourself idle time in which to think; you usually keep your house neat and your kitchen particularly so, but there are always little things to do, a shelf in the pantry that's gotten out of hand or some cinnamon sticks you haven't had the chance to grind up and put away in the spice cabinet. Deal with these now, chattering all the while with your rock and various pieces of the kitchen.
When the pains start, recognize almost immediately that something is wrong. It should not be hard; it is too soon and they are too fast, not at all what you were told to expect. Take enough time to put out the flame beneath the kettle, then regret the delay as another contraction grips you. Cling to the counter as you stagger, gasping with pain, from the kitchen. Whether you think you can keep your balance or not, use the wall to stabilize your path to the front door.
Stumble from your house and, working on autopilot because it hurts too much to think properly, try to make it to one of the other houses in the Victor's Village. When you fall and can't get up because you're writhing too much, don't worry. Your screams are loud and shrill enough to draw someone. Look at who it is, but don't wonder whether you know them; just take their hand, struggle to your feet, and be grateful that someone is saving you.
There are no true doctors in District Twelve, but there are apothecaries, healers, people who learn what they can about saving lives. With the help of your newfound friend, limp to one of these and lean heavily against her doorframe, breathing heavily as tears streak down your face. Construct explanations as the door opens and a dark face peers out, but stay silent; save your energy for tamping down on the screams as they get you inside and on a flat surface. Listen to the urgent voices swirling around you: "I found her like this." "Look at the size of her, it's too early." "She's so tiny—has she been eating properly?" "Boiling water, someone shut up and get me boiling water!"
Ignore the guilt. No, don't try to stammer out a half-formed sentence about how you should've eaten more. That is the past now, and you will have plenty of time to think on it later, should the child die or live to be small and unhealthy. Instead, listen to the one voice (or is it several?) that you hear in your mind, the one saying, Fight for me, Aranica. Fight like you fought in the Arena and then some.
Realize, as another wave of pain wracks you and makes you scream, exactly how apt an analogy this is. Realize that this hurts more than anything physical you have ever felt, even losing a limb. Try not to let yourself be transported back to that time, because lingering on the past is unhealthy, but go anyway, because right now the past is actually the lesser evil. Swim through fevered memories made solid; feel your arm fall off, feel a blade in your hand and an arrow in your shoulder, pull the trigger of a dart gun at a shadowy reflection of yourself in the hopes that doing so will end this before it began. Hate the Capitol, because their drugs could take away this pain and ensure your child's survival. Love the Capitol, because in inventing their drugs, they saved untold thousands of women from this agony. Wish Mace was with you. Thank your lucky stones he isn't.
Eventually, let all the thoughts and images fade into darkness, a mute nothingness broken only by your own shrieking. Eventually, let go of that as well, fading into comatose silence.
As a sheet settles over you and a thump (someone sitting down?) hits your ears, feel not joy or relief, but terror. Know that "You'll live" is supposed to put you at ease, but worry about it. Wonder why there is no crying and force your eyes open. Start to squirm in your bed, only to have restraining hands appear from nowhere and hold you down before you can sit up.
Shake your head. Find a voice somewhere within you, one that hasn't yet been ripped by screams or dissolved by pain. "Did...?" Try to figure out how to finish the sentence. Implore the healer with your eyes instead, because you cannot find words. You're too tired, and too scared by the woman's blood-soaked hands, to keep going. Like the pain, the blood seems to hearken back to earlier times—blood in the water, on the screen, on your skin. There has been so much death in your life that another seems inevitable; understandably, you do not want to face that.
Feel your breath catch in disbelief as the woman leans over, then lifts a tiny figure, saying, "Beats me how, Aranica Petros, but you're a mother." Disregard how small and quiet it seems and focus on how normally odd-looking it is, all those squishy pink limbs curled up together. Dare to smile. Reach out with one hand, needing to feel the warmth of this unbelievably tiny body so you can be sure it's real. Smile wider in thanks as the stranger who saved your lives bends down and, with a gentleness you never would have guessed from her rough words, places one of the baby's hands in yours. Trace it gingerly, desperately, lovingly; feel the contours of its tiny curved fingers and the still-damp warmth of its skin. Fall in love.
Whisper, Look, rock. Look.
Hear the clouds try to break in, and repel them with a rage that would frighten you if you weren't so relieved, a rage borne from your joy in this moment and a mother's determination to never, ever let harm near your little one. Hear your rock, confused as ever by human affairs but responding to the pride and love in your voice, answer, I see, Aranica.
Panic as the healer pulls away, taking your baby with you. Resent her barking laugh until she says, "Relax, Petros. In a couple hours, you can hold your baby and I can give you a good long tongue-lashin' about your nutrition, and then we can talk about what he'll need. Right now, you needs to be restin'. Sleep a bit, I'll look after him." Know from your bone-deep weariness that she's right, but watch anyway as she takes your child to the room's only door and pokes her head out, calling to you-don't-know-who: "Miracle children, both of 'em! They're gonna live. It's a boy. Don't any of you try to name him for her like the last bunch'a twits that waited in this room." Don't relax until she closes the door on the excited hum of voices (how does news travel so fast sometimes?) and returns to her chair by your bedside. Then, and only then, close your eyes and allow yourself to slip into a dreamless sleep.
