The Poetry Book

“I’ll pay it for you this time Ethan,” I said with a smile, reaching for my purse, and tried to sound stern when I told him that I wouldn’t pay his fines again. “What did you think of the book?”

His grubby face lit up when he realized he didn’t have to pay the £6 fine. 

“I didn’t like it, it made me feel… bad. I don’t think I’ll read poetry again. Do you have any more adventure books?”

After I had found some other books more suited to his taste and pointed him in the right direction, I wrote his name and today’s date into the poetry book he had returned. I hesitated when I realised whose name was written as the book’s previous borrower:

Olivia Stephens.

Upon reading her name, the familiar pain and memories came back. The phone call, crying, speaking with her parents, numb with grief. Tears came to my eye when I recalled the conversations we had shared when Olivia was still alive, her beautiful smile and intelligent eyes. She loved the library and literature, but did her best to hide it to maintain her popular image.

She died in an older boy’s apartment at a party after taking all the drugs the idiot kids had, and stranger still, repeating words to a song or poem before passing out.

A real tragedy, one that shook me to this day.

“Ethan, finish your chapter!” I called out. As usual, he was the last remaining in the library. It was already dark, home time. I was apprehensive about going home to another argument, so I allowed him to keep reading a bit.

Curious of the poetry book, the one that Ethan hadn’t liked and perhaps the last book that Olivia had ever read, I flicked the book open to a random page and read a few while I waited for Ethan to finish reading.

I thought in that moment - neither of us wanted to find what was waiting for us at home. His terrible home life was well known among the school, and she wasn’t the only one to help him out financially from time to time.

I wasn’t surprised that Olivia had only kept the book for two days, the poems were rather simple. But what had Ethan meant when he said it made him feel bad? 

I was about to return the book to its place on the shelf and reach for my bag to leave when one stood out to me. Almost shimmering, the tiny poem called out to me.

Cradle of life, womb of dread,

Yearning for light, path grown dead.

Strange.

After reading it again, I had to agree with Ethan, I didn’t like this book either.

After walking Ethan home, I thought of what awaited me at mine, and what mood Mike would be in. We had argued a lot recently, and I had spent the past two years trying to muster the energy to leave him and look for a man who wanted a child as I did. Or disappear from the town, where Olivia haunted me, and teach English abroad again as I had done in my twenties.

The poem lingered in my mind the whole walk home and I realised with a disturbing feeling it’s connection with my desire for a baby.

I was surprised to see the lights on and Mike home. He opened the door and greeted me with a hug, a kiss and a glass of wine. 

“Come in my love. The sea bass from the market is in the oven and I’m just finishing up the veg.” 

As I took my coat and shoes off happiness grew within me.

The good wine, the fresh fish from the market… What was this all about? 

As I told him about my day and drunk my wine I watched his strong hands cut the carrots and imagined them on me. I drank in the fresh, sweet smell of the carrot juice and I became sure that he wanted to conceive tonight. But since he wasn’t telling me, the suspense grew and I could bare it no longer.

I asked him what was going on and he smiled sheepishly.

“I’ve been thinking, and I’m sorry. It’s just … hard… to know what I want. I’ve been stupid, but I know now.”

Irritatingly, my phone started buzzing, I ignored it. Nothing would ruin this moment.

“What do you want?” I asked him, breathlessly, moving in closer.

“I want you, and I want a baby, if you still do.”

I threw myself into his arms, laughing. My body soared. I hadn’t realised until that moment how much I had been suffering and how light I felt now. Waves of pleasure reverberated through me and my body sang with music. My tears of joy came off onto his shoulder and when we stopped our embrace I saw tears in his eyes too.

My phone.

To his dismay, I reached not for him, but for my bloody phone, ruining the moment. My intention was to turn it off, but it showed that a teacher friend, Christine, had called five times.

Odd.

I could hear sirens.

I told Mike I had to quickly take the call in the living room and that I would be right back.

Her voice was stressed.

“Clara something bad has happened. At Ethan Barnes’ house…”

Ethan. 

“What is it?”

My heart raced as I prepared for what was to come. Not again… please not again. I could not go through another Olivia Stephens… the tears. The trauma, the nightmares. 

“It’s just happened, we don’t know. Meet me there as soon as you can.”

I told her that I would be right there, then hung up. I didn’t tell her that I had walked Ethan home only thirty minutes ago.

Oh god. I tried to reign my terrible thoughts in. Perhaps Ethan’s grandfather has just fallen over? Maybe the awful man hadn’t beat him bloody for being home late as my fearful mind was conjuring.

I went back into the kitchen.

“Mike, something has happened. I’ve got to go.”

He whirled around. “What do you mean?” 

“It’s Ethan, he might be hurt…”

More sirens.

I quickly embraced him. Life was so unfair, tonight was to be perfect.

I tore myself away from the warmth of the kitchen and went into the cold porch to put my coat and shoes on.

He followed, still holding the knife.

He was asking me questions about what was happening, in a concerned voice. I told him that I didn’t know much, but there were already ambulances there.

“Clara.” He said, faintly. I looked up at him. Something wasn’t right.

“You’re forgetting something.” He came closer.

“What?” I asked. What on Earth?

He looked at me. Then he said:

“Cradle of life, womb of dread,

Yearning for light, path grown dead.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. How did he know these words? It took me a moment to realise that that was the poem I had read in the book.

But how?

He repeated the words, again, approaching closer.

Frozen, my mind was frantically trying to connect the dots, drowning out all other thoughts.

Repeating the words… 

Like Olivia. They said she had repeated words to a song or poem before she died.

The poetry book…

“Cradle of life, womb of dread,

Yearning for light, path grown dead.”

An impact, in my stomach.

An almost electrical tingle spread around my stomach. Then heat, a burning heat rushed through my body, intense and hot.

Pain.

I watched in disbelief as Mike, his lips always moving, plunged the knife into my stomach again, and again, and again.