Steal

Have you ever felt so lost that it seemed like just about anything could fill that void?

Months of anticipation, of brewing emotions erupting with no one to turn to, that was the feelings I had when I laid there on the operating table. At the time, I simply wanted it to be over with. For that page of my life to end so that I could move on.

Perhaps, God had heard my wish and cursed me for that very reason.

The baby inside me was simply just a thing, a result of poor decisions that I couldn’t control. A lump of flesh that sucked my vitality and wore down my sanity. And maybe, just maybe, the spiteful heart that I possessed infected him.

Because the warm mound that came out of me fought and shivered painfully, like he barely hung onto the world of living. Like all this time, he bathed in the coldness of my own self.

Rejection – that had been all I had given him. When I should have loved him, whoever he was that had decided to be my baby.

Seeing it fight like that suddenly made me realize how very cold I was. That I had only been able to hold on all this time because of its warmth. And now… it was gone.

The baby was placed in intensive care, unable to do anything on its own. All I could do was stand behind those glass walls and watch as his vitals weakly blipped, clutching the cut where he came out of as it slowly healed.

The days went by, mindlessly regretting these feelings that I once had. I blamed myself for causing this, for acting like I wanted no part in it. It seemed like God truly had listened to me and gave me what I wished for, despite realizing just how much of a mistake it was.

That was my punishment. To suffer in waiting for the child I had abandoned. And when the doctor finally came in to tell me the bad news, that was when I knew that even God had rejected me.

The child had died after weeks of turmoil. The result didn’t even surprise me. I had it coming, for being so cold. But simply, my mind shut down, and I blacked out for a moment. When I woke up again, I found my torso bleeding, and people rushing around me to apply first aid.

Apparently, I had grabbed something sharp and carved at my wound, like I was searching for a child that was no longer there. A warmth that was no longer there. The pain of that wound made me feel like he was still there, that I had not lost him.

And with that, I was strapped to the bed for several days while the nurses made sure that I wouldn’t try anything else. I was too exhausted to care. Too painful to live. And cold, always always cold. No matter how many blankets were piled on top of me.

Finally, one day, they decided to undo my straps, believing that I had calmed down. But being an empty husk was not the same as being calm. And of course, I broke out again, but this time during the middle of the night.

The biting cold as I pressed my hand against the windowpane felt refreshing as my hand started to grow numb from it. Perhaps, I would jump out a window and let it wrap me in its bitterness. Because I had no more reason to be here.

But then, something crossed my vision: a small cart, designed specifically for newborns. It had stopped in the hallway, the nurse in charge presumably stepping into the adjacent room for supplies.

I walked over and stared at the swaddled babe sleeping inside. Without thinking, my hand reached out to stroke it.

“Warm… so warm…,” I thought, crying.

And in that moment, my heart, greedy for its warmth, picked him up and ran away. Back to my room only to grab my things, I left the hospital in a hurry. With only a heavy coat and my ATM card, I withdrew as much money as it could possibly give me, and then, made my way out of the city.

What I had done was evil, but my mind had long shattered and lost its way. Only the feeling of warmth kept me grounded. Only the baby in my arms kept me sane. And as cold as my heart was, the world felt even colder, only warded off by the single presence held against me.

And now… more than six years later, I had finally reached the end of it.

I would like to say that doing such a terrible thing had healed me. I would like to say that I didn’t care what people thought as long as I had Devin. But when the words I heard where no longer only my own, when they stopped being only what was written down and looked back on, I could not longer fight back the past.

Without his warmth, none of it could be held back. The guilt, the trauma, the lies – everything came at me once again. Because I knew that I wasn’t enough for Devin. I would never be. I was not his real mother. My love was fake, borne of a desperate plea within madness.

The pencil rolled from my hand at that moment. My vision was cloudy as I tried to look around for it, but the exhaustion and pain were winning. I hadn’t slept since then, the day that Devin was retrieved from my clutches, returned to the family I stole him from.

I lifted my other hand to my face, stopping short as I saw that it was dyed crimson. The floor was damp around my torso, where the pain radiated from. The glint of a kitchen knife hovered in my vision. Slumped on the kitchen floor, I closed the journal that I had been keeping all these years. No more words could be said in it.

And slowly, ever so slowly, I crawled across the floor toward the open door, the cold night outside inviting me. I had put it off for almost six years, but now, I would finish that thought.

I have no more reason to be here. There is no warmth to be found.