Birth oneshots

Birth alone

I can hear the blizzard roar even before I open my eyes, its crying cutting through my sleep. I eventually open my eyes to the noise. Its late in the morning but these past few weeks I have never been able to get enough sleep. But I guess that's normal for being almost nine months pregnant. 

I look down at my bump, stroking it slightly. I've realised I often just stroke it absentmindedly, almost like I'm admiring it. It is almost funny how much its grown over the past few months, my precious little baby.

The one doctors office in my town has been very good about having me come in so they can give me check ups and measure the baby. I think they're honestly just so excited to have a new edition to the town. We are very small with a very low birth rate. 

I always knew that if I lived in Sarton it would likely be a life of isolation, a town of only a few thousand in the English countryside. But I love my small little life, I spend my days writing, cycling around town, baking, and going to the small Sarton markets.

There was really only one thing I felt was missing, a child of my own. I've always wanted one. So for my thirtieth birthday I decided to give myself a present, a trip to a sperm bank. I took a while to get close enough to London for a town to be big enough to have one, but I found one eventually. That was eight months and two weeks ago now, and my baby is almost here. 

I think a lot of my neighbours were worried about me having a baby by myself, most of the old ladies are married. But I've always known I could raise a baby even without someone to do it with me, and raising them in the house I grew up in seems perfect. I haven't actually told my parents I'm having a baby, I guess one of the advantages of them having moved to Germany, but I do hope they will be happy when they see how happy I am. 

But enough reminiscing, I should get out of bed. With some difficulty, I manage to sit up. 

I shuffle over to the edge of the bed, letting my swollen feet rest on the floor as I slowly stand up. But just as I stand upright I feel myself buckling over, my abdomen tightening. 

Oh no. No.

I immediately sit back down on the bed, hand resting on my stomach. No. No, this isn't happening. Not now. 

It's a fake contraction. Braxton hicks. Or maybe just a pain from standing up at eight and a half months pregnant. That must be it, it's fake. I'm not in labour, I still have time. I will go into labour on a day where I will have no trouble getting to the doctor's office, which will not be today. I have no reason to worry, I will just stand up again.

But then another pain, stronger than the last, starts to build from inside me about ten minutes later. I hunch over, grabbing the metal bar of the bedframe, gasping at the intensity of the horrible clenching agony in my lower belly.

Another three contractions over the next half an hour, and I can no longer deny it. I am in labour.

The wind roars from outside the window.

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Six hours have passed.

The power is off. There are no lights outside my window from any nearby houses. Inside, I've lit a couple candles, but they only give off so much light.

I have barely moved from the edge of the bed, except to light the candles. I now lie on my side, clutching my belly and panting. In my other fist I clutch the wooden bedframe, slippery against my sweaty hand as I fight contraction after contraction, which have only grown closer together with how long I've been here.

The next contraction builds with pressure unlike the others, and when a gush of fluid hits my feet my breath catches. It's coming. It's really coming and there is no one here to deliver it. I don't know how to deliver a baby, let alone deliver my own into my hands.