A Judgement of Solomon - A creative piece

A Judgement of Solomon

My arms surround the tiny bundle, enveloping her. I am crouched over her, we are eye to eye, and I can see how my breath ruffles her eyelashes. I study her face carefully, committing every feature to memory. The sparse light that trickles through the gaps in the wall glints off her hair. So little hair – fair and so thin that it barely covers the blue-veined scalp. Her mouth lies open, toothless and pink. The lips, parted now, their soft skin delicate against my coarse hands supporting her. Her skin, downy and translucent, glows, ethereal in the gloom. The pink blanket wrapped tightly around her warms my hands, frozen in the icy coldness of the room.

In the shadows I can make out the whites of Sara’s eyes as she stares up at me with passive incredulity. She and Johan huddle together in a corner, her arm around his shoulders, giving him all the protection a twelve year old can. None of us move. I am paralysed by the freezing blood thumping rhythmically through me, reminding me at every beat of what I am holding in my arms. Sara shuffles slightly and there is a sudden noise outside. Terror takes hold of me and I am unable to breathe. Johan’s eyes widen and I grip tightly, grasping the fragile infant in my desperate, twisting fingers. A metrical tread sounds, the boots stamping out a tattoo on the floor. I am scarcely breathing, my mouth as dry and airless as the tiny bundle against my heart. With my other hand I grasp Johan, only nine years old, his eyes are squeezed shut against the faceless danger. My fingers trace the line of the rough yellow pattern sewn onto the rough cloth of his jacket. He and Sara know better than to stir: the slightest sound means the end for us.

For an eternity we stay, motionless and hushed, figures frozen in a grotesque sculpture. I feel sweat pearling into droplets, gliding down my backbone, pooling above my skirt. Sara is crying, silently, desperately. Her stare screams up at me, silently accusing. I look, but the only eyes I see now lie lifeless beneath blankets in my arms.

There, in the darkness and stench, I remember the anguish of watching my baby grow gradually thinner, her skin become yellow and the china-thin bones stretch at the surface, threatening to break through. I had no more milk, yet she would suck desperately at my empty breast, clutching at me with her hands, unable to comprehend. At night, her reedy voice would pierce through the building. Never had I imagined such a tiny, frail body could make so much noise. I remember the miniscule fingers grasping at me, my face, my body, my hair, twisting in my hair until it snared and broke. Her pink mouth open, eyes all but invisible as she stormed out her fear, her cold, her hunger, her rage.

Awkwardly, my hands aching from cramp and cold, I unwind my hair from her stiff little fingers. It snags, a last rebellion. As the last of the footsteps fades outside I lay the corpse at my feet, giving it one last look before I turn, with an arm around each of my children, and open the door.