My mother, whose hand I squeeze with all the strength I have left, a vain attempt to transfer the pain to that single embrace, but maybe it was meant as more of a comfort than anything, tells me again and again just one more time, Ramie. Only it isn't one more time. It's never one more time. The pain sears through my abdomen, my legs, my back, every bone in my body aches and every muscle contracts and relaxes, a never ending cycle of pushing, breathing, and screaming. I'm covered in layers of sweat, waves of it roll across the creases in my forehead, and down to my cheeks. I feel very fragile, and the fact that the two people in this world who share equal amounts of my love are arguing only increases the stress of the situation. I couldn't love the two of them more, but their foul words thrown at each other carelessly, as an attempt to hurt each other, or at the very least scare each other away, have me angrier than I've ever been in my life. I almost feel a hatred toward them; but it's not really aimed toward them, just their childish behaviour.
"Rayon!" She yells. "don't patronise me; I've done this three times in my lifetime. I know what I'm doing."
"She's my girlfriend, don't you dare tell me I can't be here." He screams back.
"Stop it, both of you! It's really not helping!" Another scream from my lips. I can't count the times I've yelled at them today, but it's more times than ever in my life I've yelled at anyone. I can't think of the last time I did any of that. I try to, but it's too hard to bring memories to mind when your body has become your enemy. Mum seems to be ignoring what I just said. As if she thinks it's only the intense stress of the situation making me say such things, but it's true. I know my mother never liked Rayon, and that's okay. But when it's affecting me, when I'm already under intense pressure as it is, I can't bring myself to let it slide. To let the bickering continue because eventually it'll stop, and I know it'll never affect Rayon and I's relationship. No, today, nothing is as it usually is. Today is special; today we all need to get along for at least a couple of hours.
Another round of splitting pain shoots up my spine, and I arch my back, screaming, gripping my mother's pale hand. She doesn't seem to mind, though. I try to keep my eyes open but they're forced shut when the pain becomes unbearable. How can I keep doing this?
"You're only seventeen!" My mother, yelling. Yelling at me. I can't really focus on her words, but I try to hear her. I try to react like I'm listening but there's only pain, and agony, and I can't breathe.
"You're only a child, you shouldn't be having one!" Of course, she chooses now to lecture me. She somehow managed to keep her mouth shut about the issue for nine whole months, and she decides now, as I'm laying on a table giving birth to tell me what horrible decisions I've made recently.
"I want this!" I scream, panting. The pain is slowly subsiding, but I know it isn't over yet. "I'm s-sorry," I'm breathing smoother now. It feels so much better than a few minutes ago. There must be another contraction coming soon.
"I know, I know." I breathe. "I should've -- aah, aaahh!!" I'm wailing, flinging my arm through the air, in search of my mother's because she broke contact. Why did she break contact? I try to peel open my eyes which have snapped shut in a vain attempt to block out the contraction. She's there, at the end of the table. I can see her softly graying auburn hair above my swollen, rounded abdomen. She's peering between my legs. Is it happening? Can you see it? Is it out yet? I want to ask so many things but I only succeed in closing my eyes because it's too much to be conscious at this point. It's been hours. We thought it wasn't coming for another month. We thought this would be just another Reaping, another day closer to delivery, but the baby surprised us at four o'clock in the morning with a flood of clear fluid. I was startled, thought I had wet myself. I woke slowly from a dark and dreamless sleep and thought I would clean up and return to bed, next to Elle, my sister, but she woke up too; just in time to run to my side as I collapsed on a chair, the first contraction tearing through my stomach. I don't even want to ask how long it's been since that first contraction. Since the moment my mother was called to my side, never to leave it. The moment Elle couldn't find a healer. The moment Rayon was sent for and the moment several hours of labour began.
"You're doing good, Ramie. Only a few centimetres to go!" Mum says happily. I begin to think she might enjoy grandparenting. It would certainly suit her. She did such a great job raising the three of us, it almost doesn't seem fair for her not to have a grandchild. I try to smile, but another contraction, longer and sharper than the others, steals it from my lips.
"It's okay Ramie, scream." Rayon is telling me. He's scooted closer, I notice between heavy breathing and sharp pains. "Scream as loud as you want." He takes my hand in his, and all I can do is stare at him in complete and utter disgust. All I feel is anger; a rage for what he put me through. As if nine months of sick mornings, fatigue, and extra weight dragging me down with every step, never able to get comfortable, never able to sleep, hadn't been enough. Labour, contractions, dilation -- birth. It makes me wish I wasn't alive. How could I put my mother through this? How could my father? He and Rayon, all they have to do is watch. Sit, watch, hold our hands as we try to shove eight pounds out of our --- another contraction. This time it isn't so bad. Back to my thoughts, I remember, Rayon didn't force me to do anything. Neither did my father force my mother. It was her choice to have children, she always wanted children, it was my choice to be physically closer to my boyfriend than I ever had been to anyone. I love Rayon. He loves me.
"Oh my god," Mother wears the scowl she only ever has on her face when something is going wrong. A cold feeling rushes over me, and I stare at her, waiting to hear the bad news.
"What is it?" Rayon has the courage to ask what I do not. What is happening? Mother's dark eyebrows are hung low over her soft, grey eyes. Her jaw is set; her eyes very focused.
"The Reaping will begin any minute." She says. I feel relief, but it's quickly replaced by a new kind of feeling. The kind that fears the government. "We can't let them find out she's in labour. The things they could do to us..." Her tone of voice frightens me. I try to dwell on it while I push with another contraction, but by the time it's over and I can form coherent sentences they've begun talking again, arguing.
"It'll be fine," Rayon assures her as he strokes my hair. "they'll let her out of one little Reaping if she's in the middle of birthing a-a child."
"Fool!" Mother snaps in return. "They don't care about us! All they care about are the Games, and their precious Quell. If it was just another Reaping, maybe, but you know how special this year is. Twenty-five years have passed since the Quells were written; today is not just any Reaping Day, boy. It's the First Quarter Quell." Just when we're satisfied that she's finished darkening the hour, she continues in a whispered, almost reverent tone; "No one ever misses a Reaping. Not for anything but death."
"Mum!" The sullen moment is over immediately as I grip the side of the table with one hand, and Rayon's with the other. The last contraction. It's long, and painful, and I can't stop screaming and screaming. Drowning out my mother's encouraging words. Drowning out my own thoughts. Deafening my own ears. This is what it takes to become a mother, I whisper through my thoughts while my eyes drift shut, unconsciousness blackening my vision.
