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2.
The Decision
The sweat trickled over my head as I pushed for what felt like the one-hundredth time. I squeezed my husband’s hand, the hand I took when we said our vows, the hand I trusted with my life, my child’s life. The hand that would ultimately be the death of me. The hand that would wrap around my neck like the perfect brace, as the eyes, the eyes I looked up to now, admiring, the love and my future, would be the last thing to close the devil’s door in my death.
With all my might, I pushed harder, until I felt as though my pelvic bone was being yanked out of me, until I saw stars exploding in pain behind my shut lids, until my legs were convulsing and sweat drowned my flesh, until the little howl of my baby boy’s cry reverberated around the cold atmosphere. Just as quickly as he arrived into this world, he was taken away. With a wrap of a blanket and a snip of the umbilical cord, my husband took my baby away from me.
My head fell back on my bed as the flames from the open fire pit flicked over my hot skin. Warm, sticky wetness slithered out from between my legs as my eyes began to drop, weaken. I opened them slowly, watching the flames as they flickered under the kettle that hung over it, warming the water. A dark shadow came over the side of my bed as my husband, cradling my son, looked down at me.
“This is the decision, wife. You know what this means for him, what our cause is.”
I struggled to gather words, my mouth closing and opening as my tongue licked my upper mouth, seeking moisture. I nodded, knowing this was what had to happen. I had no say in the matter, and if I did disagree, there wasn’t a lot I could do about it. So I nodded and watched as my husband and his three friends took my newborn son and laid him flat on the blank stone.
His piercing scream rippled through me and tears fell from my eyes. My husband took the small branding iron, laid it over the hot flame, and then walked back to my son. He pressed it onto his little upper arm. The scream turned violent, and my tears rippled through me as my heart broke. My husband wrapped him back up in his little blanket and then brought him back to me, placing him in my arms.
I cooed to my baby, moving up onto my elbows as one of our maids came rushing in, holding a warm bucket of water and rags. I rocked my baby, looking up to my husband with newfound hate, and then looked back down to my son, the Circle of Infinity now embossed into his innocent fresh skin.
The decision was made, and a new world order was about to begin.
Goose bumps break out over me.
“Madison? It’s time for class, hon.”
“Oh, okay.” I shut the book and clutch it under my arm.
“I’m Miss Winters, just so you know next time you come in.” She leans on one of the bookshelves.
“Will most likely be handy to know,” I say, walking toward where I picked up the book.
She watches me carefully. Her mouth opens and then closes, as if she wants to say something. I pick up my books from the small table and smile at her. “Thanks for letting me slip in here real quick.”
“No problem.” She smiles weakly. I turn to walk out the door, when a word stops me. “Ten.”
I turn around to face her. “Pardon?”
She clears her throat. “We close at 10:00 p.m. on Fridays. I mean, just the library and the gym. You have to access from the side door with your student ID card, but we’re open until then.”
She walks to where the titleless book is pushed in, her finger brushing over the spine. “Do you know why this book has no title?” she asks me softly, looking back to me.
I shake my head slowly. “No. I’m only up to chapter two.”
She smiles. “Those aren’t chapters, and this isn’t a book.”
Huh? Without wanting to sound like an idiot, I don’t say anything at all, hoping she’ll elaborate. She does.
“It’s all myth and legend, old folklore.” She smiles at me. “But this wasn’t written to be a book. The women who wrote it….” She opens the first page, running her fingers over the fine cursive writing. Every stroke of the crow quill done with perfect precision. “She wasn’t writing a book.”
“What was she writing, then?” I clear my throat.
“Her suicide note.”
THE REST OF THE DAY goes painfully slow. After that talk with Miss Winters, I left. I’m going to go back in there on Friday though. I want to read as much of that book as possible, even if it is a very long one. Or a suicide note, as Miss Winters said. That thought gives me the heebie-jeebies.
