Attendees trot about flicking the delivery room blinds shut and locking the entrance for privacy... and for the safety of the public.
“It hurts… OH GOD… it hurts.”
The doctor, an African with a thick accent, orders more morphine for the mother-to-be and a nurse dutifully injects it into the drip though fear pervades her and her hands shake uncontrolably. Another frightened nurse mops blood from beneath the table only to give up and layer paper instead. The doctor might slip and kill the baby she thinks… but what if that would be for the best?
Across the hall the father waits, a cigarette box rolling around in his hands. The couple are not married and may never be, if God has an opinion, but he feels close to the baby if not the mother. Ever since conception, a drunken fuck in her other kids four-foot bed; he believed he could hear the baby’s voice, his voice. The sex is officially unknown still, but the father is sure – dead certain – that it is a boy. He can hear the mother scream from the room and he smiles. The boy is alive.
In the doctors’ ear, a nurse whispers:
“The bleeding won’t stop. What do we do?”
She wipes the sweat from his brow secretly affectionate, unaware that they can never be intimate again. This child will change that.
“We will deliver this baby.”
The mother screams shrilly and squeezes a nurse’s hand who balks and drops to a knee. Blood stains her apron and her skin. Tomorrow she will scrub and scrape but the stain will remain permanently.
“What’s wrong with my BABY? What’s wrong with it?” The mother’s head juts back with a sudden strike of pain, as if in a car crash, and she just exhales before slipping unconscious.
Simultaneously the doctor gasps. The mothers’ vaginal wall is tearing and she bleeds internally. He orders an emergency c-section but fears it may be too late.
The babies’ head pokes out; the skin is red raw, peeling off even now only seconds in the fresh air. And as it slips and twirls from the womb, blood lubricating it’s exit, it’s crawl to freedom, the doctors heart grows heavy and numb at what he holds in his hands. A strong baby boy, a pair of sharp, bloodied horns jutting from his forehead.
I hope you enjoyed the story, a fictional tale of what could happen if Satan inseminated a hapless young lass who’s only dream was to raise a sprite, healthy family. Dreams can be thrashed around like abused children and this young woman was a victim of just that. The ethereal art of turning a persons’ life down the wrong street in a split second, in the time it takes to illuminate a room… or to darken a stained corner.
Britney Spears gave birth to a healthy baby boy today. Preston Michael Spears Federline, the heir extraordinaire to the Spears fortune and infamy. The press will focus on this birth and rightly so, but Britney was not the only female on the planet to have drunken, trailer trash sex nine months ago. My brother and his vagina performed the sweaty dance, the social contract, and the proof was delivered just hours ago in Limerick Regional hospital, a seven-pound boy without horns or a tail, but with ten fingers and toes and a dull brain.
Sure, those people with eyes will look upon the boy and see a cute bag of flesh with spit dribbling down it’s soft chin and a dark shadow cast over his eyes, but I see a desperate grab for money. One final attempt to prove that the father might not be the thieving, lying, alcoholic waste of a human that he so deftly demonstrated himself to be so many times before, but a caring, gentle soul who only needed the right push a child provides, the right reason to settle down and work hard at raising a family and perhaps get to know his own parents a little better. And their money.
I may be proven a cynic in the years to come, and perhaps some part of me buried deep beneath the boiling waves of hate wants it to be so. But I cannot envisage this family, and I use that term loosely, I just cannot envisage them staying together for the death and violence they will inevitable pull over themselves like a blanket of knives. I am an uncle today, gentle readers, and I wish for the life in me that I wasn’t.