Family

My muscles burned, acid churning through my veins. Heavy, but shallow the gulps of air I took in my mouth fuelled me to keep jogging. To keep moving as my apartment was just around the corner. The dryness in my eyes still stung, the redness gone as they traced the dim, misty path to my home. I had just cried moments before when I had taken a break, I never thought that things would escalate this far.

Some strands of my white braids stuck lightly onto my dark back, my black hoodie sticking to my mud like skin. Thuds of my footsteps audibly plundered into the ground, my chest moving up and down at a nefarious rate. Stopping by the tall building I took a large sip of water from my bottle. The bright artificial light from inside the building caused me to shut them closed for a moment, I had quickly become accustomed to the dark purple hours of the morning since I started jogging four months ago.

I swished the cool liquid in my cheeks, between my teeth. Making sure that all inlets of evidence of my vomit was nowhere to be seen even better yet, smelt. Wincing slightly at the sourness that flushed down my throat, I sealed the water bottle and stepped inside the building.

The loud swoosh of wind from the opening double doors, flew up my nose forcing me to take a step backwards. My heart felt so light, it thrummed intensely, my limbs slackened tirelessly. I faced the floor, the blue torn walls of the building reminded me of home and all that transpired there.

“Should you be running around still with that belly and hoodie?” The lady of the building didn’t hesitate to say to me worriedly, her pupils peering at my protruding watermelon like belly. The stress in her eyes, mimicked how I felt. Whether it be she was feeling stressed about something else or about my baby or my hoodie, I can relate regardless. But I don’t need to be reminded daily that I’m pregnant, especially now. Not in this state of mind.

I flashed a quick smile at her pale oval face and signed myself in, ignoring her question.

“Thank you. I have to go.” I cut our conversation short and went the long way. The stairs. She didn’t say anything else to me and I’m glad. I roughly massaged the large creases of skin that were gathered on my forehead. I think I’m being watched.

I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand, my other hand holding onto the rail. The water bottle sat in my palm, empty like me. The feeling of being closed off and dry, trapped away from any sort of refuge but the hope of a lid being opened once in a while was frustrating to say the least.

The hoodie was comforting, no matter how torturous it was for me to wear it while I jogged, I felt slightly safer.

“I will kill you.” Those three simple words ringed in the background of my head for months now. So short, yet so effective it left a permanent scar.

If only I didn’t sleep with that man. I’ll never see him again and I don’t blame him honestly since it was a random one night stand. It all happened on my 18th birthday, I had slept with him out of curiosity and told my parents afterwards. That was my biggest mistake.

Unlocking the door, the first thing I did entering my apartment was to pull off my hoodie and toss it to the floor. The second thing was going to my room to see her.

“I’m back!” I painted a poor smile on my face, black and white, bright colours being completely absent.

The black woman looked up at me, her wrinkly hands reaching out to me gently energetically after putting down her tablet at her lap. She checked to see if I was wearing the hoodie, a satisfied look in her eyes glossed through.

“My Ella, how was your jog? Any progress?” My grandmother spoke lowly, though her tone was nothing but that. It was yellow, full of positivity. She adjusted her hips backwards to the head of the bed, her long grey pants scratching the white sheets with her physique.

I only kissed her soft hands, and moved back. “No, not yet. I can’t give you a hug, I’m smelly.” We both then giggled lightly.

Pulling out the large pillow from under her swollen knees, I spoke lowly, “I love you.” Truly, I did. She risked a lot despite her dilapidated age and lack of ability to walk. I respect it.

However, she didn’t say it back.

“Remember they aren’t here.” The topic quickly morphed into one of 7 months ago, right before we ran away together in a taxi. She tugged down her white tank top as she let out those words.

At first I was so confused on why my parents reacted the way they did, they weren't religious last time I checked. They were wild, free and loved too by almost everyone they knew. They adored how people saw them. The last part never clicked until it was too late.

“Its fine, grandma. Thank you for being here.” Our eyes melted, fusing into a deep understanding of each other.

“Your parents are wrong in this situation, don’t tell yourself otherwise, but they wouldn’t go that far as to come after you, trust me.” She continued on.

My eyes watered. She noticed but said nothing, her smile rippling wider. She looked pleased that they did. That her message went through me, this time deeper than ever before. My grandmother however, was a Catholic which explains perhaps why she sided with me. I just might become one too because of what she was brave enough to do.

“I've to go bath, I’ll be back.” I spoke gently before taking my gown from my wardrobe and leaving the room. My heart didn’t agree with her, my mind seeing reason though. She wouldn’t lie to me like this, I’m being paranoid. But a fact isn’t enough to make someone feel better.

With haste I tugged off my clothes and set them before the shower and stepped inside. Cold water shot harshly on my face moments later, down my chest. I rubbed my stomach gently with a slightly shaking hand. I felt like I was being watched still, though I know that they aren’t here. The guilt and shame I would have felt if I did it would have been paralysing, I was literally holding onto a twig of support back then. The mental torture and pressure from my parents almost propelled me over the edge, their act of brutally shaming me day and night burning through my skin.

Though it was months ago, the searing sensation of my parents, that pushed me to rid of my mistake still remained. On my case always, their rash insults and unrelenting words of threats against me physically never left still months after they were said.

The fluffy soap was warm against my body for a split second before it became cold. My breathe was halted, my face laying in the foam. My tears seeped through my eyelids, vivid and cruel memories of my parents putting me down, daily for my choice rendered now in the front of my mind. Propelling me mentally everyday to a cliff of resolution, to give in. It was either that or I was going to get disowned.

Or so I thought at first. The second option quickly transformed into unruly promises of my death. Vanessa was the only one there for me.

I wanted my child, so did my grandmother. We still do. Lifting my face, the foam dissolved, diluted and tinted with my sweat. My palms shook against my loofah harder, I struggled to reach the crevices of my private parts as I couldn’t concentrate properly any longer. In a burst of frustration, I flung the material against the wall outside the shower. I lost balance in both of my feet and fell forward, slamming my head against the shower tap. The collision disoriented me, I felt fuzzy and weak in my knees. A mixture of blood and soap clouded my open eyes. The very present stinging sensation in them was like a pinch, my forehead being the pulsing beacon of discomfort . My arms felt ten times heavier as they were hanging , attempts at lifting them being useless, my head rested on the metal object for support.

I let out a low sound, an attempt at a scream crawled out of my jaw. It reached nowhere though, the raining water drowning it almost completely. My heart slammed against my ribcage ruthlessly as more blood leaked from above my pupils.

“Ella!?” Through my dimming senses I heard a shrivelled, scratchy voice of my grandmother calling me.

“Help.” I said with all the strength I had, but it only came out as a whisper. The fear of losing my baby pushed to try again, and so I did but it didn't work.

My eyelids followed, they slowly dropped sealing me from my environment.

I felt no pain anymore. My face and body was dry, void of any wetness and pain.

The sharp cries of a baby woke me up, my eyes peeled upwards like my upper body as I noticed the bright room I was in. Between my legs was a puddle of blood, my heart dropped.

My grandmother was holding a baby at my right-side, she was facing the wall with a nurse by a table. I slid off the bed in the blue hospital gown. My baby. Joy overfilled my heart along with the mental agony left by my parents. I don’t know what it is about that but they never leave, right there in my mind my memories of them keep rolling like a broken record. All I managed to do was to push them in the back of my mind for certain periods of time, depending on how stressed or decent I was feeling.

I quickly tapped my grandmother on the shoulder in silence to get a turn in holding my daughter. She didn’t respond.

“Vanessa?” I slowly asked, slightly annoyed. She still didn’t respond. I turned to the bed and saw my body. It was eerily still. I died. My dress was clean, but the one on my dead body was wet with soapy water and wet blood at my neck, forehead and pelvis.

I looked down to see that my shaking palms had returned, only this time, more erratic. My dry feet tapped slowly around the two women’s silhouettes with all the strength I had left.

I’m dead. I really died. I gazed at my baby. Her naked gums shined in the glowing light of the round bulb. Her tiny tightened fists, her little cries signalling her arrival in this world ripped my heart apart with something positive to hold onto. She made it. It felt overwhelming. The existence of so much strain and newfound joy in my chest was a strange, overpowering feeling.

I fell onto my knees, screams of sorrow ripping through my soul as I realised I died leaving my child behind without a mother. All the running away, the fighting, was it for nothing? I will never get to hold my child, more accurately I never will by choice. She wouldnt know that I was doing so, making it more fruitless and excruciating to witness.