"I have been in birthing rooms and dying rooms, and there is little difference- the crying out for Mother is the same."
~Raine Bailey
I sihghed and rolled my shoulders. I attempted to pop my neck. The chair was uncomfortable and made my neck stiff and my back sore. I sighed and stared at the numbered door. 230, Delivery Room. I hope they make it. Suddenly, a doctor rushegs out and grabs my arm.
"It's a girl. What do you want to name her?"
"Melody." The name my wife picked out in memorial of her hopeless singing career.
Two hours later, I am sitting with Melody in my arms, and Sofia resting quietly beside me. Then, the image shifts... The room erupts into chaos. I am shoved into a familiar uncomfortable chair. The doctor comes running out.
"She's losing blood! Hurry!"
The numbered door looms before me. 456, Operation Room.
Melody is older, nine years old. I'm clutching her hand, and she's sitting beside me.
"Mom? Mom! Don't leave me!" She screams.
I gasp and sit up in my bed, dripping sweat. Why does my brain continue to torture me with the memories I try to repress during the day?
YOU ARE READING
Quote Stories
RandomThis is just some stories I wrote based off of some quotes. I post every Sunday. VIEWER DISCRETION ADVISED!!!!! There is self harm and suicide and slurs and mean, mean things. I do none of this, and do not think this way. I wrote like that to port...
