A Welcome Guest

The following short story depicts the struggle of a young woman between her want for a child she did not ask for.

It was not my choice to carry a child, I had been attacked by my sister’s husband only months before. I had told no one, but I knew fairly soon the child would begin to grow in my belly and surely mother would notice. I had often thought of throwing myself down the stairs, or cutting the wretched thing right out of me. And I don’t know what frightened me more, that I could stifle the life within me, or that I would fall in love with it and be unable to. How would I be able to look at this child’s face and not see its father’s? How could I love a child born of terror and violence? I suppose I could love the parts that were mine, but the parts that were his father, well, I’d just as soon cut them off.

 

The sad but necessary evil of being a life giver who wanted to take life away. It all seemed so unnatural, and yet, to keep it was unfathomable. Father would disown me, mother would beat me, and my sister would go on about her miserable life, bowing to her husband’s every whim. At least I had had the courage to fight back, although the consequences were what had me here on my knees in tears. I cried for what seemed like days, and as I knelt beside my bed I felt a surge of pain in my womb. The pain grew and grew until I began to tremble and could hardly breathe. And then I felt warmth dripping down my legs, and my nightgown soaked through with blood. My prayers had been answered and I immediately hated myself for it. I had considered my ability to rid myself of the thing, but I had never entertained the idea that the Lord would. If He hated me enough to take away my child, what else could he take from me? In the few moments of losing it, I had grown to love the life I was making. As I lay there in a pool of blood I wept for my unborn child and begged the Lord to give it back. Please give it back. I stumbled to my feet, pleading with whatever rasps I could muster, but the baby kept dying.

 

A few months passed and no one knew of my miscarriage. I still regretted my wishes to be rid of Baby, and longed to hold its precious head against my breast. But Baby had been dead for a while now, and it was all I could do to wake up in the morning.

 

One night, almost half a year later, I was sleeping, and I heard the door creak open. I was not surprised to see my attacker standing at the end of my bed. The first time I fought, but this time I would let him. Perhaps this was not the way to make up for what I had lost, but I missed Baby. I wanted another chance; another chance to give life. When it was over, and he had left the room, I lay there motionless, overcome with shame. But the very thought that I may be with child again warmed my heart. I pulled down my gown, curled up in my blankets once more, and drifted off to sleep with thoughts of my little one and names running through my mind. Hannah, Thomas, Abigial, Emily, John, Esther, Samantha, Noah, Penelope, Joseph, Baby…Baby...Baby...