A Life For A Life.

Getting drenched in that thunderstorm should’ve killed the baby.

This thought twirled and pirouetted in Clarissa’s mind the entire day; while she starved even when her mum had sent a casserole, as she folded dirty laundry back into the laundry basket, on her creaking veranda with the evening chill as company.

Clarissa had stood in the middle of apocalyptic rain the day before. The ancient gods must have taken the act as a plea, her little sacrificial prayer. She wanted to end her baby’s life; she never wanted to carry its life. But alas, all she carried was an immune system far too immune for her liking, and her twenty-seven-weeks-old baby still in her uterus.

With the rustling wind tickling Clarissa’s bare arms, she peered down at her slight protrusion and muttered, Why won’t you die, little one? Why won’t you set me free?

*

The week after was Clarissa’s antenatal appointment. As with the week before, she had missed this one. Her mother called later that Saturday, yelling to Clarissa her doctor’s words. He tells you to come in next week, and you’d better. If I find myself in your sorry excuse for a home to drag you to him myself, I assure you it will not be the least bit pretty!

Clarissa deleted her mother’s frantic voicemail. Seven missed appointments was hardly the thing she needed to render herself unpregnant. She needed the baby out of her system, and she was sure to do everything within her power to ensure that outcome. Again, her blasted immune system was proving to be a terrible partner in her quest.

Every week, with each missed appointment, Clarissa had taken lemon water mixed with sage and tulip petals. She’d read somewhere that it wasn’t a particularly good concoction to support a healthy pregnancy. She was doubtful of such information. She made and drank the mixture anyway. Then, after an hour or two, she’d check her temperature and blood sugar herself. No one was available to assist her with this, ever. Even the man responsible for this cursed predicament had fled to the Bahamas for a getaway with a university lass less than half his age. Today, as always, she shrugged and performed her routine without help. Sans the .8 increase in temperature from last week, and a 104mg/dL blood sugar level, she was a healthy mother in the making. Not once had Clarissa stopped to feel if her baby moved inside her: she believed, as other mothers had said excitedly the first time she made it to her antenatal, that she would become attached to it and want it to survive.

Another con on the ‘Killing It’ list. She ignored the baby and went about her uneventful day.

*

Clarissa dreamt an awful dream that night.

In it, her lover—the father of her child—stood by her side, gripping her waist with vehemence. Her stomach didn’t protrude; this unconscious detail gave Clarissa great joy. A tighter squeeze of her delicate frame squashed this mini elation. This man, this lover of hers, stood before her dead father, shaking the latter’s hand with near as much vehemence as he held her in place.

I’m very glad I get to marry your daughter, sir.

Oh, I’m lucky she picked the right lad. Done something stellar for once, this feisty one has.

These strange men laughed so hard and so deeply, it echoed across the walls of Clarissa’s subconscious. More small talk with this creature that looked like her father, and soon she was alone with her lover once more.

Smile harder, Clarissa. You need to convince them I’m your best shot and that this baby isn’t a quick mistake. Even though we both know it is.

Clarissa grinned harder per instructions, and her hand instinctively—instinctively? Mother’s instinct? By golly, I’m living the dreaded role even in my sleep!—rubbed on her stomach. Her lover—she kept failing to recall his name—slapped her hand away, his sticky liquor breath travelling in and down her nostrils as he whispered a harsh reprimand. It took no shaman to tell that this was all a trap. A trap designed by her parents to finally get rid of her as they always said in their bedroom, in hushed, heated argument. A trap by her lover to tie her down and be labelled a good man, a family man, while he was free to roam to provide. Not just to provide her needs—Clarissa knew her needs were hardly the first things on his mind—but to provide his mistresses’ needs as well.

No doubt all six of them made bets to see who’d moan the loudest. Or who’d get an STI next. Really, it was all a matter of fickle time.

Clarissa awoke with a start. She flicked on her night lamp and screamed into the dim. Her matted hair clung to her head as she jumped out of bed and headed for the kitchen. She marched to the kitchen countertop, and stared at her reflection in the kitchen window. The shrubs rustled in the night breeze, a bit of the humid, moist air getting in and tickling her exposed bump. The gods weren’t on her side after all.

She dug the largest cleaver right into her bump.

*

Did you do that! Did you hurt yourself?

No voice held that much croaky disdain like Clarissa’s mother’s. Clarissa frankly imagined her mother sounded like what Athena might’ve sounded. She hated both of them, anyway. Both women who never supported their girl folk.

Answer me, you deranged twat!

Clarissa’s consciousness blinked open to off-white fluorescents and the stench of sterility. Her throat scratched and ached; she motioned for her mother to pass her the glass of water on the centre table.

Goddamnit, child! Did you try to murder the baby?! Because if my grandchild is about heading off to Netherworld ‘cause you couldn’t do one thing right like you’ve never done before, then I swear it’s the end for you!

Clarissa sighed and raised herself off the hospital bed, ignoring her mother’s muted roars. The crackling bedframe continued even after she reached the little table and raised the glass to her scaly lips. Ocean water in a fucking mug, she muttered, and resumed her position on the bed. Clarissa most definitely noticed there was now no bump. A part of her twisted, but a greater part gave her a proud slap on the back. Good going, lassie.

A doctor and a fleet of nurses burst in then, smiles on their faces. Clarissa noted they were all in navy blue scrubs and surgical hair nets. She wondered what other business they had with her if the baby was dead. She heard it then, her mother’s earlier words; ‘try to murder’?

Congratulations, you lucky Missus! The baby’s well and alright. We’ve placed him in PICU for monitoring, but he’ll be good and able for the incubator in no time.

In that instant, Clarissa saw the horrors of her possible future flash before her eyes. The horrors that took the shape of a kitten-sized baby boy. The murderous creature was out to destroy her, every single thing. A little boy, who would grow up to obtain the same Scottish burr as his great grandfather; the kind of burr the ancient man ground out with roughness, an utterly guttural semblance of sound. Ma poor granddad could scare a herd of buffalo, he could. That voice was carved from Hell’s rocks!

She couldn’t do it. Clarissa couldn’t. Her mother dragged her, tired and spotting on her gown, to the nursery with three nurses all sporting wide grins. Clarissa ground her teeth in response. Then, there it was. Lying with tubes sticking out of it from multiple places. She thought her baby resembled the biological hydra, with all those white hoses going in and out of it. She wanted it gone. She wanted that baby dead.

Without warning, a brunette nurse pulled Clarissa’s hand and caressed the baby’s cheek with it. It was soft, Clarissa noted. Hairless, smooth skin of porcelain and ivory. It was beautiful, Clarissa also noted. The tiny thing looked malleable, and she desperately wished to drop if it she were strong enough to hold it. If it were strong enough to be held.

My, isn’t he a joy for the eyes? Clarissa thought her mother sounded like the Evil Queen Grimhilde.

The boy’s finger moved, and terror filled the seas of Clarissa’s consciousness. No, she thought. This boy cannot live. There wasn’t in existence a world in which she and this child together would survive. Panic and dread. Panic and more dread. Her gown soaked red with each passing minute, but no one was there to help once more, their attention solely fixed on her lover’s offspring. Just like his father, he stole it all from her, aiding in building the glue trap designed for her demise.

Clarissa would dream this night, sweaty and restless in her ward. She’d make resolutions, too.

The child dies; she’d make certain of it by the morning.