A short story- ‘Who am I?’

Short story writing

For the Professional Writing unit of my course, Communication and Media BA (Hons), we were required to write a 1,000 word short story. The short story could be about anything you desired, so here is my attempt.

      What could I have become? The next Marilyn Monroe, an explorer, an astronaut, or maybe just an average individual with an average job and an average lifestyle? Yet mine was not a life to live in. I had no future, no determined path, no being. Would my mother and father love me? Would I annoy them with childish behaviour? Would they laugh at my playfulness or would they be proud of my accomplishments in life? These are all questions I will never have answered. They too will never know who I am, what I am like or how I feel; these are the heart-rending thoughts my parents will have to deal with every hour, every day and every year for the remainder of their lives.

      I was meant to bring happiness to a family who had suffered greatly; suffered from the death of a loved one, suffered from money worries, suffered from abuse and dissatisfaction of a relationship. Would I have brought in contentment, warmth, fulfilling their lives with a new and exhilarating prospect? Or would I have heightened the worry, apprehension and pain in their lives? I’d hoped my family would have loved, cherished, treasured and appreciated my being. I would have returned this love and contentment, would have valued their opinions and decisions. The thought of being a part of a family, being included in a world where I can rely and depend upon advice, guidance and assistance when I most needed it, was only a thought I could dream about. Yet I hoped that, whether I was bullied in school, had boy troubles or was struggling with exams, I would know who to turn to, who to rely and depend upon.

“But, who am I?” I cried. I am nothing now.

      I was a limp, fragile and delicate body lying in the arms of my mother; blue, cold and unresponsive. Her hand carefully supported my comatose head; the other tenderly stroking my small check. Coldness shrouded her wishful hand; coldness which should have been warmth, love and excitement. A tear tickled from her inflamed, puffy eyes, once shining with anticipation and enthusiasm, now full of despair and misery. Despair and misery I knew was my fault, yet I could do nothing to alter this feeling of desolation. I only lay there in silence; unable to speak, unable to move, unable to feel the love from my mother. A type of love that only a mother and child can have with, yet this was stolen from me. My life was stolen from me.

I too could have taken my mother’s life.  My empty vessel could have destroyed not only my mother, but my family as well, my father, my grandparents. Would I have been considered a murderer? Would my father have blamed me?  Blamed me for the loss, if my mother had resulted in dying too. I cannot bear to think of these repercussions and aftermath. Yet these ramifications only result in more questions that are left unanswered for me. I can only assume, assume that my family would care for, adore and feel affection for me.

      I should have opened my delicate, fragile eyes to glowing smiles, ecstatic gestures and blissful thoughts. The thoughts of what the future may hold; brothers, sisters, university, even my own children. However these thoughts and hopes of contentment were no longer present.  Instead of being greeted with love and appreciation, I was greeted with death. Death which cloaked my diminutive, feeble wilted body.   I didn’t experience an adoring, warm and tender first moment with my mother.  In its place was my mother’s first moment with me, holding a limp, lifeless body in her arms. My unconscious, motionless corpse should have been a living, healthy baby. A baby whose precious heartbeat was considered the most valuable, beloved and dear prize a family could have been given. My expectations, hopes and dreams and what I hoped my mother would have felt, were truly deceased and shattered. My life had departed.

“But who would I have become? I can never know”.

      My tiny, miniature hands and feet were used to make impressions into a mould; used to sustain a memory, memories of hope, optimism and prospect. My fingers  were spread to mark my existence, my being. My life may have been abruptly taken, but my soul and body still are present. Does this mean my mother wanted to preserve my memory? Does she truly, deeply love me, even though I only lay without a response? I only hope, wish, long that I have not caused too much hurt, too much pain, too much anguish.  The type of anguish that I can never forget;  for my soul can never forget the ache I have had to endure; leaving my life, leaving my family, leaving only hand and footprints for a memory. Photographs capturing my life beyond this time, will never exist. My childhood, adolescent and adulthood will only be ‘what could have been’; my person, self and personality will never be known.

      I wanted to know how my father would have reacted to holding my cold, detached, inert body. Would he have touched my hand, in hope of warmth, felt my chest, in hope of a faint heartbeat? Would he have done anything to save me? Save his daughter?  I wish he had done. I wish he had saved me, but I am to blame for my death. My body could not cope; my body let me down, let my mother and father down.  Now I am only a soul, a spirit of a child that had no being, no determined path.

      Did my soul escape my body for a reason? Was this a life that was not meant to be lived? I do not know.  Was my fate destined for doom so that death was an escape; a lesser of two evils? I can never know. My only wish is for my parents to understand that I am a life, a life that will always remain in their hearts, footprints that are left in their memories. 

“But what am I? I am stillborn”.