Original fic: Make One
Written for picfor1000. Apparently original fic (or highly fictionalised reality) is my thing for that now. Thanks to my Nny for once again providing the confidence I needed to get this posted. *hugs her*
My picture prompt is here and you should go and look at it if you want to feel warm and happy on the inside.
PG, 1000 words
WARNING: Mention of miscarriage (but not an unhappy ending). Please use a pre-reader if you have concerns.
"I'm keeping this one," she said, fierce and low as a tiger's growl. "I'm keeping him."
3 hours before
She hooked her fingers under the plastic lid, thin edges indenting fleeting stripes into her finger-pads as she tugged it loose, the strong tang of houmous sharp in the air.
In her belly an answering sharp pain, and then a flood, squeezed tight like a lemon stripped of its juice.
She put the lid back on and the tub away before calling out. Always practical that one.
14 months before
I spent hours sifting through patterns. Endless variations slowly whittled down until only one choice remained.
I chose the wool-gender neutral, of course-and it was all I could do not to blurt out to the girl behind the counter who this was for.
Inside I was singing.
3 weeks before
"There are two amniotic sacs," said the doctor, "and only one of yours has burst. The baby is perfectly happy, but will probably come early. We'll keep a close eye on the two of you, don't worry."
"He's in the kiddie pool and not the big pool," he said, squeezing his wife's hand and trying not to look as terrified as he felt. She was the strong one-everyone knew that-but he could take his turn. "Let's hope no one's lost any plasters in there."
Fleetingly, a laugh illuminated her face. He was pleased-still getting his job done right.
"She just has to get to 32 weeks, mum," I said. "It's only a fortnight. 32 weeks is hardly early at all. It'll be fine. Trust me."
"What if-?"
"Don't," I said. "We don't have time for what if. I have to crack on with the knitting. You need to get that essay written. Practicalities. Think about those."
The wool was a tangled mess. For a time I wondered if it would be easier to throw it away and start again. But I worked at it and, bit by bit, it came right in my hands. I picked up my needles.
13 months before
She told herself that she was mistaken, that the dark spots could be anything, that the twisting cramp making her breath catch was milk that had maybe been on the turn. Her sense of smell had been off-kilter for the last week or so; how could she have known?
She couldn't lie anymore when the safe home she had been building began to slip out of her in earnest. She couldn't do anything but sit on the toilet, hands gripping the bath and the sink, reminding her that the world was still solid, still present, even as the potentiality of a life never lived passed beyond her grasp. Eleven weeks. Size of a lime, two arms, two legs, still an embryo. Not her baby, not even a foetus. Not anything now.
She didn't cry. She was the strong one, the practical one. She called the right people, saw the right doctors and carried on.
11 months before
My knitting bag sat forgotten in the corner, the layer of dust thickening on top grey like sorrow.
21 weeks before
She passed into her twelfth week of pregnancy feeling like death barely given a spin in a microwave. The nausea was terrible and she wasn't sure she could face another sip of flat lemonade and she'd never much liked gingernuts anyway.
It wasn't the sickness that made her cry, though.
The twelfth week. That was what did it. He held her and cried with her.
2 weeks before
Her breathing quickened and she sat up, throwing off the duvet and staring into the dark. She pressed her hand against the swell of her stomach and swore a stream of curse words that would make any pirate proud.
He shifted, twisting his body towards her and his hand flapped gracelessly at her arm. "You okay?"
"I'm keeping this one," she said, fierce and low as a tiger's growl. "I'm keeping him."
His hand tightened its grip. "I know, love."
After a few moments her breathing slowed and she lay back down, pushing the hand away. There was a four-fingered throb under her skin, but it passed soon enough. She was glad she didn't bruise easily.
5 minutes before
His eyes were shining, round red splotches of excitement low on his cheeks as if he were a child playing with make-up for the first time.
"You are the best thing that ever happened to me," he told her.
She blew at a strand of hair trapped by her sweat-the early fruit of her labour, welcome harvest windfall coming fast. "I know. Now give me your hand back."
"Wait." He slipped the squared-off ring from his finger, putting it into his pocket. "I don't want to hurt you if you squeeze tight."
She stared at him, directing him with her eyes to the midwife crouched between her legs. He followed her gaze down and then back up.
"Oops?" he said.
She laughed, and when the midwife said, "Push!" she took a deep breath and did as she was told.
1 hour after
The baby slept, breathing on his own, but safe beyond a wall of plastic just in case. So small, so fragile. She slept, too.
A flurry of phone calls across the country and the repetition of the story, distant relief and concern beating over him in rhythmic waves.
"Yes," he said. "We're good. My family, we're good."
1 week after
He'd refused to latch, but she hadn't given up hope. Complications had kept them in the hospital so we congregated there, holding him in turn with the soft look of awe that can only come through equal parts fear and hope.
"You can see his first bath," she said.
His tiny arms waved and his face contorted with angry protest. She was swift and steady, always practical.
"Poor thing, he's cold," she said. "I know what'll help."
She reached for the brand-new yellow knitted blanket and wrapped him in it, safe as houses, warm as toast. I smiled.
We watched him sleep.
Also starring at Dreamwidth! (
comments.)
My picture prompt is here and you should go and look at it if you want to feel warm and happy on the inside.
PG, 1000 words
WARNING: Mention of miscarriage (but not an unhappy ending). Please use a pre-reader if you have concerns.
"I'm keeping this one," she said, fierce and low as a tiger's growl. "I'm keeping him."
3 hours before
She hooked her fingers under the plastic lid, thin edges indenting fleeting stripes into her finger-pads as she tugged it loose, the strong tang of houmous sharp in the air.
In her belly an answering sharp pain, and then a flood, squeezed tight like a lemon stripped of its juice.
She put the lid back on and the tub away before calling out. Always practical that one.
14 months before
I spent hours sifting through patterns. Endless variations slowly whittled down until only one choice remained.
I chose the wool-gender neutral, of course-and it was all I could do not to blurt out to the girl behind the counter who this was for.
Inside I was singing.
3 weeks before
"There are two amniotic sacs," said the doctor, "and only one of yours has burst. The baby is perfectly happy, but will probably come early. We'll keep a close eye on the two of you, don't worry."
"He's in the kiddie pool and not the big pool," he said, squeezing his wife's hand and trying not to look as terrified as he felt. She was the strong one-everyone knew that-but he could take his turn. "Let's hope no one's lost any plasters in there."
Fleetingly, a laugh illuminated her face. He was pleased-still getting his job done right.
"She just has to get to 32 weeks, mum," I said. "It's only a fortnight. 32 weeks is hardly early at all. It'll be fine. Trust me."
"What if-?"
"Don't," I said. "We don't have time for what if. I have to crack on with the knitting. You need to get that essay written. Practicalities. Think about those."
The wool was a tangled mess. For a time I wondered if it would be easier to throw it away and start again. But I worked at it and, bit by bit, it came right in my hands. I picked up my needles.
13 months before
She told herself that she was mistaken, that the dark spots could be anything, that the twisting cramp making her breath catch was milk that had maybe been on the turn. Her sense of smell had been off-kilter for the last week or so; how could she have known?
She couldn't lie anymore when the safe home she had been building began to slip out of her in earnest. She couldn't do anything but sit on the toilet, hands gripping the bath and the sink, reminding her that the world was still solid, still present, even as the potentiality of a life never lived passed beyond her grasp. Eleven weeks. Size of a lime, two arms, two legs, still an embryo. Not her baby, not even a foetus. Not anything now.
She didn't cry. She was the strong one, the practical one. She called the right people, saw the right doctors and carried on.
11 months before
My knitting bag sat forgotten in the corner, the layer of dust thickening on top grey like sorrow.
21 weeks before
She passed into her twelfth week of pregnancy feeling like death barely given a spin in a microwave. The nausea was terrible and she wasn't sure she could face another sip of flat lemonade and she'd never much liked gingernuts anyway.
It wasn't the sickness that made her cry, though.
The twelfth week. That was what did it. He held her and cried with her.
2 weeks before
Her breathing quickened and she sat up, throwing off the duvet and staring into the dark. She pressed her hand against the swell of her stomach and swore a stream of curse words that would make any pirate proud.
He shifted, twisting his body towards her and his hand flapped gracelessly at her arm. "You okay?"
"I'm keeping this one," she said, fierce and low as a tiger's growl. "I'm keeping him."
His hand tightened its grip. "I know, love."
After a few moments her breathing slowed and she lay back down, pushing the hand away. There was a four-fingered throb under her skin, but it passed soon enough. She was glad she didn't bruise easily.
5 minutes before
His eyes were shining, round red splotches of excitement low on his cheeks as if he were a child playing with make-up for the first time.
"You are the best thing that ever happened to me," he told her.
She blew at a strand of hair trapped by her sweat-the early fruit of her labour, welcome harvest windfall coming fast. "I know. Now give me your hand back."
"Wait." He slipped the squared-off ring from his finger, putting it into his pocket. "I don't want to hurt you if you squeeze tight."
She stared at him, directing him with her eyes to the midwife crouched between her legs. He followed her gaze down and then back up.
"Oops?" he said.
She laughed, and when the midwife said, "Push!" she took a deep breath and did as she was told.
1 hour after
The baby slept, breathing on his own, but safe beyond a wall of plastic just in case. So small, so fragile. She slept, too.
A flurry of phone calls across the country and the repetition of the story, distant relief and concern beating over him in rhythmic waves.
"Yes," he said. "We're good. My family, we're good."
1 week after
He'd refused to latch, but she hadn't given up hope. Complications had kept them in the hospital so we congregated there, holding him in turn with the soft look of awe that can only come through equal parts fear and hope.
"You can see his first bath," she said.
His tiny arms waved and his face contorted with angry protest. She was swift and steady, always practical.
"Poor thing, he's cold," she said. "I know what'll help."
She reached for the brand-new yellow knitted blanket and wrapped him in it, safe as houses, warm as toast. I smiled.
We watched him sleep.
Also starring at Dreamwidth! (
comments.)