Not Mine
The street lamp flickers. She stumbles onto the curb. Something is squeaking.
It is a rat.
Her hand touches her cheek. Blood.
Where did I put the bag?
Her clothes are ripped. She is cold.
Why does my head hurt?
She had too much to drink.
I did good tonight.
She turns right. The lights go out in the diner. She turns toward the dumpster. A strangled cry slices through the quiet.
Damn rats. Always taking the good food.
She lifts the lid.
Her hand is numb as it reaches for the lump atop the rancid bacon and stale bread.
The rats left bacon.
The lump rolls left.
A jacket. I need a jacket.
Her hand unwraps the bundle. A light turns on in the apartment above. She drops the bundle. A child.
Why is it crying?
She starts to walk away.
It is not hers.
Another woman brought that baby here.
It is not my child.
She stops. Turns. Walks back toward the unwanted baby. Gently lifts the child out of the trash can.
It's a boy. He. He is a boy.
Her fingers trace over the faint scars running across her arms. She does not know how to love. She cannot care for this boy. No.
He is not her son.
Cautiously, she rubs soothing circles in the child's back.
I do not know how to care for others. I cannot.
I am not his mother.
She holds the boy as gently as she knows. The wailing stops. Where is that woman? Where is his mother?
The baby shivers. He is cold. Tears begin to fall from his eyes once again.
Her eyes dart from end to end of the alley. Shadows dance upon the bricks.
Somewhere above in the darkened apartments, glass shatters. A man yells. A door slams. Silence engulfs the city once again.
Where is she? She did not leave this boy to die. She will be back.
A car drives by. She is not coming.
No.
This child is not mine.
His eyes stare up at her, pleading for something she cannot give. She cannot leave this boy.
A siren pierces the night. The street is illuminated by red and blue flashing lights. They are coming.
She cannot stay. She drops the boy back into the dumpster and runs into the darkness, never stopping to look back.
I am not his mother.
It is a rat.
Her hand touches her cheek. Blood.
Where did I put the bag?
Her clothes are ripped. She is cold.
Why does my head hurt?
She had too much to drink.
I did good tonight.
She turns right. The lights go out in the diner. She turns toward the dumpster. A strangled cry slices through the quiet.
Damn rats. Always taking the good food.
She lifts the lid.
Her hand is numb as it reaches for the lump atop the rancid bacon and stale bread.
The rats left bacon.
The lump rolls left.
A jacket. I need a jacket.
Her hand unwraps the bundle. A light turns on in the apartment above. She drops the bundle. A child.
Why is it crying?
She starts to walk away.
It is not hers.
Another woman brought that baby here.
It is not my child.
She stops. Turns. Walks back toward the unwanted baby. Gently lifts the child out of the trash can.
It's a boy. He. He is a boy.
Her fingers trace over the faint scars running across her arms. She does not know how to love. She cannot care for this boy. No.
He is not her son.
Cautiously, she rubs soothing circles in the child's back.
I do not know how to care for others. I cannot.
I am not his mother.
She holds the boy as gently as she knows. The wailing stops. Where is that woman? Where is his mother?
The baby shivers. He is cold. Tears begin to fall from his eyes once again.
Her eyes dart from end to end of the alley. Shadows dance upon the bricks.
Somewhere above in the darkened apartments, glass shatters. A man yells. A door slams. Silence engulfs the city once again.
Where is she? She did not leave this boy to die. She will be back.
A car drives by. She is not coming.
No.
This child is not mine.
His eyes stare up at her, pleading for something she cannot give. She cannot leave this boy.
A siren pierces the night. The street is illuminated by red and blue flashing lights. They are coming.
She cannot stay. She drops the boy back into the dumpster and runs into the darkness, never stopping to look back.
I am not his mother.