Lights on the surface quickly transition to a blur. The four corners of the walls feel as if they can close in and collapse without any warning. Her heart is pounding in agony of the struggles she is put through; skipping beats faster rather than in sync with the beeping machines surrounding her. She knows this because the push of her blood pools in her head throbbing with exhaustion.
"You are doing great dear just breathe!" A warm voice begun to tame, but even this voice is on edge.
Her hands are woven through other fingers more masculine than her own, and her head leans back parallel to the floor and ceiling.
She draws in a deep breath through her nose holding it hard in her lungs pushing with all the strength she can muster up.
Her back hurtles and curls as her body is pushing long enough for her fists to ball up intensely and her stomach muscles to ache until she needs to release.
"You are nearly ready! One more darling!"
She doesn't want to listen to the voices around her. They all speak, paining her ears to listen. They always instruct her to push. Is that all she is good for?
"Push!"
Push: to apply force on (someone or something), typically with one's hand, in order to move them away.
People usually tell her to push when there is a door in front and she accidentally pulls, or when she was young, she would say this while driving a sled over a hill racing her friend to the bottom. Now, she is creating a life through a child.
Once again she listens. Straining every muscle, pushing every vein, squeezing her eyes shut as tight as they could handle.
Pushpushpushpushpush she thinks to herself. She is beginning to doubt it however. She had lost her motivation to carry on a long time ago.
"You are finished dear!" the masculine voice assures her.
These words are like sweet honey to her ears. She is finished pushing her head and her body past what feels like their breaking point. She can finally rest without hesitation or worry to pursue any further exhaustion to her.
She hears crying, although the sound hurt to listen to after the constant Babel of useless voices and the longing she misses for silence; she loves it.
Because this sound promises life.
Naturally, she spoke in Swedish tongue. She is lucky her accent isn't so thick; she might not have had such a promising chance of her child's survival with medical services if it wasn't for it.
She rests back and fills with fatigue but was still anxious and curious to meet her child.
"What is my child?" She questions, she frantically looks from as many angles as her weak body can handle but her father quickly takes the child and covers it before she can see the gender.
"Vänligen far, let me see." She begs. Her father however, is not as forgiving as she hopes. He gives her a bold glare and turns to leave the room. He had lost all respect for her having a child so young in life.
"Please don't take my child away! Please Papa!" She tries to pick herself up from her poorly made bed but fails from weakness. Her father refuses to speak or even risk one look at his daughter.
"I want to see my child just once please!" Her voice screeches, breaking and cracking from desperatness, she reaches her breaking point.
Nothing could convince her stone cold father from allowing such a thing. The glow of the candles reflect off of his face, his cheek muscles clench with anger. He stormed out of the room without looking back twice.
YOU ARE READING
Dear Writer, - The Fooo Conspiracy (Felix Sandman)
Fanfiction"Do you fly?" I write these words without thinking. Why is someone watching me? To most people this would probably be disturbing but I oddly find comfort in it as it is a sense of security. By this time the sun is setting and the chill is becoming u...
