Unwomanly

Short Story

It begins in my throat and burns up my trachea, exploding into a ripe hot white pain. I kneel behind my closed door and let myself cry out. The sound is raw, animalistic.

I am aware of the weakness of my bones, the smallness of each foot, each hand, as I pull myself down to the floor. Salt floods my face and burns my lips. My anger is grey, swollen like thick smoke, choking me. Pragmatism reminds me that I haven’t removed my coat, my shoes, my satchel. I feel like a child again, motherless apart from my own intuition. I sit, half sobbing, half screaming, too small to carry so much pain.

I want your baby. I want the assurance of your permanence, the swell of my purpose, the role of mother, wife, I want the grip of red fingers against my hand, I want blood that is mine, is yours, to flow on into another tomorrow, I want- I want to be as real, as tangible, as She was.

I always lived in Her shadow; the mother of your child. She haunted you in absence, each lonely waking and silent meal, every sadness and every inch of my barren body. Her fertility cloyed where your hands shook to go, out of trauma left scarred by Her. The child stolen from your arms by Her. You call me Her name and my voice stops for fear of breaking.

And now, in my long inability to bear what is my duty, your family grows impatient, hot as you are cold. I am a fruit that has failed to bloom, to be cast away as the seasons pass. I have failed, and they turn to what has been. Their need for grandchildren, a niece, a next generation, ripped through me as if I was a shadow. A plaything on the side of your great mission, your great fate to Her and The Child.

I place my hands now to my empty womb, which I had so often praised for being lifeless, and feel only resentment. My love for you, my care, my slow healing and warmth is nothing, nothing to your family. I am too young, too brittle, too unwomanly, too childless for too long. Your duty is to The Child Your duty is to The Child Your Duty is to The Child

But in their finding of her, I am lost. The children I had wished for with you are but as shadows and my body is numb, your touch absent. I pray like a madwoman crouched by the door, begging god for any answers, any strength.

But I hear only your father’s voice, bitter and hard as January.

His duty to be with Her and The Child

His duty to be with Her and The Child

His duty to be with Her and The Child

But She doesn’t love him! I cry to god, your father, and no one. I love him, I stayed all these years she was gone, I must be something-

I must be something.

And I look up at my reflection, white with exhaustion, red with pain, and wonder if there is anything there but a shadow, the world walked through