It's Snowing

The snow is coming down hard and heavy. It’s not storybook, postcard snow anymore. But it’s not quite weather warning snow either. But that’s because this snow was unpredicted, a complete surprise to everyone. Except me. The weather people on TV look so confused and flustered, they have no idea what to say. Motorists are stuck on roads, trapped at a crawling pace on their twenty-minute journeys home. But I knew this was coming. I’ve been here before. They details are fuzzy now, but I have been here, lying on the sofa in pain, waiting all before. I have been dreading this day for quite some time. I was never sure exactly when it was going to happen, but I’ve been in the right house for a few years now, and the right shows have been coming back on TV. The thing is, it’s like I know what’s going to happen, but I can’t change anything on the way. I only know bits and pieces – I knew where I was going to be and the clothes I would be wearing – but I couldn’t change any of the small things that might have made a difference. I don’t even know what the small things are.

            

It’s still snowing. And it’s going to keep snowing for a while now. I don’t know when it will stop, but I know that it will be snowing when it happens. In this image or memory or whatever it is that’s in my head, it’s snowing and the sky is dark. There will be people there, but they won’t be able to help. Phone calls will be being made, and there will be blood on the towels that will surround me. The TV will be on in the background. But there’s nothing any one will be able to do.

          

I don’t know when it’s going to happen, but it hurts now. No one is here yet, but some are on their way. I want it to happen soon so that the pain will end, but I don’t. I don’t really know what happens after, but I’m worried it’s going to be the end. I can’t be sure, but there is going to be a lot of blood and a lot of tears. I hope someone will get here soon.

It had all been going so well, a part of me thought that maybe this wasn’t going to happen after all. Maybe it was some kind of warning – if I was somehow more careful, or luckier this wouldn’t have to happen. I ate right and went to doctor’s appointments. I read everything I could. I tried not to let myself get too attached. Maybe that’s where I went wrong. I tried so hard and now there’s blood on the floor and I can’t even move to get a towel. People are arriving now, I can hear them struggling with the door. It’s always been stiff. Or maybe I knew that from before, I’m not sure.

Despite all of it, I still don’t actually know what’s wrong. I don’t know what happened and neither does anyone else. The roads are blocked and phones are being cut off. I really don’t know what’s going to happen and there’s just so much blood. I hope I’m okay. I hope we are.

Laundry Night

The machine threw her clothes around and around. The linoleum floor was cold and uneven, but it hardly mattered. It was that sort of night. Vibrations were making their way down her spine from the stacks of machines that piled up to the ceiling. The sun had set hours ago but the room was still oversaturated from the industrial strength fluorescent bulbs. The cycle should have ended by now. At least the room was empty; she wasn’t in the mood for ephemeral gossip.

Only four minutes, now. Watching her clothes, she couldn’t help but see the other times she had worn them. Sunny days and rainy museum trips were mixed in with first dates and last kisses. Warm nights when secrets were told were thrown around with arguments that had ended in slamming doors and red faces. Waiting in the cold for the same bus over and over sharing the same space as cinema trips and popcorn.

Some had been washed more than others, but it still didn’t seem to get them clean enough. Old friends still left their smell and touch in the seams and the stitches. Rehashed conversations were printed on the back of the label where no one bothers to look, with old memories tucked deep inside pockets. Nearly ready to be dried.

December

The air feels cold inside her lungs. Everything seems washed out, despite the darkness. She leans back against the building for support. Nearly dropping her phone twice, she wedges it in between her shoulder and cheek, wiping her clammy hands on her coat. It rings through to voicemail and all the air she has been holding inside falls out.

She sits on her floor, the walk home blurry. This wasn't supposed to happen. She writes out a list of options, putting pros and cons next to each. It doesn't seem to help. Pulling herself into bed, she resolves to pack in the morning.

Light finally drifts through the curtains. She booked her tickets some time around 4 a.m. when she had officially given up on sleeping. Her bag is mostly packed too. The search through her phone contacts is fruitless; she had deleted his number weeks ago. A few embarrassing calls later and she has it. It's still early, but there's nothing else on her mind.

The phone call was as uncomfortable as expected. There were a lot of quiet pauses. They agree to meet when she gets back. She will tell him then, in person. Her parents still haven't called back. She gets through to them on the train and tries to explain. Yes, right now. I'll call when I get there. It's the 9:07 a.m. I'll see you later.

She opens a book and reads the same page three times before giving up. The train is quiet and there is nothing to be distracted by. Specific plans hadn't been made for the other end. She will call him from the station.

He is at the platform and she pushes her phone back into her pocket. They talk about nothing in particular, walking round aimlessly. He brings up his new maybe-girlfriend and asks her how she feels about it. She knows it doesn't matter, but congratulates him nonetheless. She tells him quickly in a fumble of words, before she can back out of it completely. Without giving him a chance to respond, she says she doesn't want it. Doesn't think so, anyway. His face doesn't change. She tells him to call later when he has had time to think. Walking away without a response, she doesn't want to wait around and watch the process.

She realises she hasn't called her parents. Evening has crept in and taken over the sky. She is wrapped in a blanket on her bed, staring at the wall. Her mother is on the end of her bed. She isn't sure how long they have been talking. They have covered everything and more, but it still doesn't feel like enough. Every ring puts her on edge. He hasn't called back yet. She hopes he will.

Icy Patches

It's the stupid, small details that will get you in the end. It is the fact that something actually happened two days earlier, and somehow that changes everything. It's the fact that he took her with him on that trip. You just don't get to know these thing anymore. You're not in the loop. 

That's the problem with the small details. They pop up in Twitter feeds and fall out of people's mouths when they aren't looking. But they are so seemingly insignificant that no one else seems to understand when you need to take three deep breaths or walk away. Because suddenly your chest has got a little too tight. There's an ache in your stomach that would need a knife to justify it. And no one understands why those few days make any difference. Maybe you would have acted differently if you had know then. But you didn't know, whether your dates are right or slightly off. You acted the way you did with the information you had at the time and it has past. There is nothing you can do to change it.

It doesn't matter if he took her on that trip too. He could take her or he could not take her and that doesn't change anything. You could know about it or not and that still doesn't change anything. They feel the way they feel and you feel the way you feel and sooner or later you will let the dust settle. It still hurts and you can still feel the black scribbles just below your breast bone. But they will gone by the morning.

You just need to keep reminding yourself one thing: you are moving forward. Sure, details like these are icy patches on the ground; you didn't see them coming and you slipped. Sometimes you catch yourself before you go down and sometimes you don't. Sometimes there's someone there and sometimes there's not. But you are still moving forward. That icy patch and all the others are there but they aren't going to stop you. Maybe they take your breath for a few seconds or maybe they knock you down for a day. But you are going to keep going. And the icy patches will get less. One day there might not be any. But it doesn't matter if they are gone in five months or two years. They aren't going to stop you.  

Real Life

I complain to you that things in real life never happen like they do in films. No one is waiting for me in the pouring rain or throwing pebbles at my window. When we fight, we don't stand and scream with just the right amount of tears. You tell me it's okay. You tell me that sometimes they do. You tell me that even when everything is far too real, it doesn't have to be bad.

A few days later we are sitting on the sofa together. We are talking and laughing about nothing in particular. You have got your feet planted firmly on the ground, and my legs are crossed.

“Put your arms up.” I tell you, and you oblige. You look quizzical, but raise your arms anyway, an aeroplane.

I lean over and wrap my arms around your middle, and yours fall into place around me. I hold tight, not wanting to let go.

“See?” you say, triumphantly, “Sometimes things do happen like they do in films.” 

Spire

The sun had worked hard to summit the buildings. An arduous climb, but the view was something else. The morning had lit up, sending the darkness to crevices of old stone buildings. There was barely a soul in sight; the view from the top of the spire spread for miles. The streets were empty. 

The fine mist left the morning hazy, like old film footage of Edinburgh, not the real thing. One or two people had emerged into the day, slowly moving around in the early morning light. Everything was still; even those who were walking seemed barely to be moving at all. The mist had brought with it a chill. It was the kind of cold that clung to buildings and bus stops and grass.

Cheeks were pink and vision was still blurry; people freshly awake. As they walked through the mist, they left cut-out shapes behind them. Birds were the only ones to make a noise. One might say you could hear a pin drop, but nobody who had to be outside at half past six in the morning was carrying a pin. 

A few more people entered the morning. Still no one seemed to be in a rush; it was as if they were walking in chest-deep water. One man's neck was stiffer than normal; in an effort to loosen it he let his head roll around on his shoulders in a circle. That was the intention, anyway. Before he had managed to complete the circle, something caught his attention. He rubbed his eyes hard with the heels of his hands, convinced that his mind was still thinking in dreams. 

Most days, churches are peaceful. But seemingly not their spires. Rather far down the spire of St. George's West Church was a body. Face to the sky, limbs hanging out, impaled. From the pavement, he could feel his neck getting stiff again, but it didn't matter anymore. Still unsure about what he was staring at, he fished in his jacket pocket for his phone, never letting his eyes leave the spire. 

2:10am (Part Two)

She heard nothing past 'no'. The room began to move around her ever so slightly. She had prepared herself for terrible, and now it seemed things were getting worse. There had been talk earlier in the pregnancy of other complications, but she had been assured that they would sort themselves out. But everything else had gone smoothly and she was healthy, surely that would count for something. 

Before she really knew what was going on, she was being taken somewhere. She had picked out a few words from conversations going on above her. It was something to do with the placenta. The more she tried to listen and understand what was happening to her, the hotter she felt. The world was draining of colour and she could feel a filmy layer of sweat on her forehead.

The doctors left, and James began to slowly explain what was going on. He was holding her hand and brushing hair from her eyes. Something had gone wrong. The placenta was not in the right place, it was close to covering the cervix. She had heard this before, at a scan. They had said everything would readjust during the pregnancy. It would all be fine. She had been due another scan in a day or two. None of that seemed to matter anymore. Things were happening now. 

Slowly things started slotting into place. She couldn't take her mind off the last scan. They had said that if the problem had not corrected itself by this time, she would definitely need a c-section.

She felt the cool gel on her stomach as they scanned her to be sure of the situation. She looked over to the monitor, holding her breath for any confirmation from the doctor.

Caesarian section it was. And it was going to be now.