Buried Issues Arise
I wrote this to aldersprig's seventh prompt "More Rensa."
Rensa’s figure was blossoming, expanding its borders while inside her a small biological miracle was growing. All the senior members of the regime treated, if not her, the baby she was carrying as a favourite grandchild, niece or nephew in utero so she was being coddled and advised and urged to do things that were good for her pregnancy. Every time she made a public appearance there was a flood of letters offering more good advice. Everyone seemed happy for her.
And then the dreams started. Dreams where they came to take her baby away from her. Dreams where she was alone, being pursued by angry, chanting men because everyone she thought she could rely on turned into mannequins as she reached them to ask for help. Yannic, Mirren, Tyrren and even Bannoc, leaving her in the end alone and surrounded by her pursuers. She usually woke up at that point but one time they’d laid hands on her, she’d woken to find Yannic shaking her, and a voice had said, “The sooner you give this one up the sooner you can have another.”
She supposed the dreams were about the pressure to have children and the fear of losing them too, plus a good dollop of…something that her new life might all be a sham, a construct to hide the prison bars. Figuring out what they were about might be scarier than having them…
“You have to see someone about these dreams you’re having,” Yannic said firmly over breakfast the morning she was officially seven and a half months pregnant by the calendar. “It was only occasionally to begin with but it’s almost every night now.”
“I don’t think I had the dream last night,” Rensa replied carefully. “Well, not to remember.”
“I think you did, or something as bad,” Yannic was looking stern. “You cry and whimper in your sleep when you have that dream and that’s what you were doing last night. I want to help you, but I can’t or at least I don’t know how. That’s why I’ve made you an appointment with a psychologist.” He put a card down on the table. “She’s supposed to be very good. I want,” he paused, “I want you to be happy and I think these dreams mean that there’s something that we need to fix for you.”
Rensa picked up the appointment and read it. “For today? Thank you.”
Rensa’s figure was blossoming, expanding its borders while inside her a small biological miracle was growing. All the senior members of the regime treated, if not her, the baby she was carrying as a favourite grandchild, niece or nephew in utero so she was being coddled and advised and urged to do things that were good for her pregnancy. Every time she made a public appearance there was a flood of letters offering more good advice. Everyone seemed happy for her.
And then the dreams started. Dreams where they came to take her baby away from her. Dreams where she was alone, being pursued by angry, chanting men because everyone she thought she could rely on turned into mannequins as she reached them to ask for help. Yannic, Mirren, Tyrren and even Bannoc, leaving her in the end alone and surrounded by her pursuers. She usually woke up at that point but one time they’d laid hands on her, she’d woken to find Yannic shaking her, and a voice had said, “The sooner you give this one up the sooner you can have another.”
She supposed the dreams were about the pressure to have children and the fear of losing them too, plus a good dollop of…something that her new life might all be a sham, a construct to hide the prison bars. Figuring out what they were about might be scarier than having them…
“You have to see someone about these dreams you’re having,” Yannic said firmly over breakfast the morning she was officially seven and a half months pregnant by the calendar. “It was only occasionally to begin with but it’s almost every night now.”
“I don’t think I had the dream last night,” Rensa replied carefully. “Well, not to remember.”
“I think you did, or something as bad,” Yannic was looking stern. “You cry and whimper in your sleep when you have that dream and that’s what you were doing last night. I want to help you, but I can’t or at least I don’t know how. That’s why I’ve made you an appointment with a psychologist.” He put a card down on the table. “She’s supposed to be very good. I want,” he paused, “I want you to be happy and I think these dreams mean that there’s something that we need to fix for you.”
Rensa picked up the appointment and read it. “For today? Thank you.”