Mother Dearest

The Pain of a Mother

WARNING
This piece of prose features subjects which might be triggering for some individuals. If you think you will be affected by the themes, I recommend that you do not read this.
TW: stillborn child, grief, death mention.

The room was small and clammy, the window was covered in fog and condensed water; droplets trickled down the glass plane, onto the stone wall and snaked its way between the boulders until it reached the floor. A woman was bundled up on the stone floor, her feet bare and her breath visible in the chilled evening air. Sobs wracked her body as she sat there, cradling a mess of fabric to her chest. Her hair was matted down, and the dark hair strands had come undone from the updo and hung like vines over her face. Golden pins had been secured to keep the hair up and out of her face, but they hadn’t held for long. She’d sat there alone in her misery for a while, though she had no feeling for how long she’d sat there, clutching him in her arms as if she was afraid to lose him.

The figure in the fabric was still; no cries, no movement. Her skin still wore the shine of the sweat, it had been tough, just as hard as the first time around. But this time, it hadn’t gone accordingly. After struggling for hours there hadn’t been a cry or a scream when she finally pushed through, he’d been blue and wrong and dead. She squeezed her eyes shut as another wave of sobs overtook her. The only sound in the room was her sobs and the sounds of her feet scurrying back and forth over the stones as she rocked her baby boy. Almost as if she tried to soothe him, to stop his crying.

But he wasn’t crying. He had never cried, only she had cried. She still was, and she didn’t know if she could ever stop again. She had no idea how long she’d sat there, and no clue for how long she’d been alone. He’d tried to comfort her, but he couldn’t. Only anger came from his efforts. He wasn’t crying, the baby in her arms was as much his as it was hers, but he wasn’t mourning. The only emotion he showed was pity, which shone from his eyes as soothing words passed over his lips. He’d taken their daughter by the hand and led her out of the room, her eyes were glistening, and tears ran down her cheeks. As her mother, she felt like she should have been the one to comfort her. But the need to hold her baby close to her chest while she still could was so big that she had let her husband lead their daughter away from her without a single protest. In a way, she was ashamed, but she kept on sitting on the floor with the bundle clutched in her arms, rocking back and forth.

The small sounds from her sobbing died out as she started humming, it was the lullaby she’d always sing when her lovely daughter was upset. Whenever her big turquoise eyes had filled with tears and she’d screamed out, Cerilyn would just have to hum the tune and the crying would slowly stifle until her daughter fell asleep in her arms.

However, she wasn’t trying to comfort the baby in her arms, the only one who’d been crying was herself. She stopped rocking, but the tones of the tune still hovered in the air. She stretched her arms, holding one hand under each of his tiny armpits. He was wrinkled and small, a bit of dark brown hair on his head. His eyes were closed, her breath hitched and interrupted the lullaby as she sucked air in, at the realization that those small eyes would never see the day's light, they would never open.

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The mentioned characters in this piece are Zuree, Queen Cerilyn and King Lamont.