"On the Wind"

Old story I wrote in December 2011. The toes of my sneakers are soaked through with melted snow. My hands shoved into my pocket, I touch the Virgin Mary who rests there, her image is printed on a flat stone, but her face is slowly wearing away with the circular rubbing of my thumb. The snow plows have made piles along the streets that tower well above my head. Many other kids my age wander the streets, heads pulled down into the collars of their coats to try and keep the cold off of their faces. I watch this boy pass and he looks so familiar. He wears simple glasses and has a rough, grumpy look about him. His hair moves with its own will, the stubble on his chin looks soft, not scratchy. His hood seems to ready to eat his entire head. As I watch him, I feel a burning on the inside of my thighs and so I press harder on the Virgin’s face until he had passed, until the warmness I feel is taken away by a gust of wind. In the wind I hear a noise and my head instantly jerks up. It sounds like the territorial growling of a cat but I know what this noise is. It seems now that everyone has disappeared inside. I see some people in the distance but they are too far away to help. Again it comes on the wind and I run towards it. My feet slip on the smoothed over snow left on the sidewalk as I hurry towards my baby. She needs me. I know that it’s her calling to me over again. I run through the snow piled up on the corners and I hear it getting louder as the blocks pass. Again, she cries and this time it comes from my left so I stop and try to assess where I am. In the window next to me I see neon signs for Bud Lite, Miller. Posters for cigarettes. The price for gas is $2.59 per gallon. 49 cent Big Gulps. Hot n’ Ready Pizzas Inside! In the reflection I see a red building with no windows. *     *     *     *     * It was getting dark already even though it was only a bit past 7 o’clock. You could see some patches where the hard ground was showing through but they said on the TV that it was supposed to snow tonight. So much for my hoping that the stupid winter was over. My palms are clammy. Some bright light casts my shadow at a new angle and I look up to see a lit up board covered with black letters advertising Easter mass. My stomach clenches and I cast my eyes downward, quicken my step away from the church. I pull out the paper with my directions written on it. I’m at 10th and Johnson now, so I turn right here. Now left on Market but my feet don’t move. The paper is pulled tight between my hands and I know that I’m cutting it close. It’s almost 7:30. I keep staring at the paper with the doctor’s name on it. Some dude. My throat burns with bile and it feels like a hand is resting on it. I can’t look at it. Maybe I could just turn around and go home. Under my shirt I know something is growing. Cells are massing together, being assigned to certain duties. It sits there. But it’s just it right? Not him or her. Not someone. I tilt my eyes so that the red brick falls into my vision. I’m doing this for its sake. I wouldn’t be able to take care of it right now. Not at this age. Not when I can barely take care of myself. I wouldn’t be able to give it the life it deserves. I have two minutes to get there and sign in. My feet move again. They give me some pamphlets when I wake up. Expected side effects, helpful tips for a speedy recovery, support groups. I find the church flyer soggy and stuck to the floor of the gas station across the street. Jesus’ arms spread open for me alone.

*     *     *     *     * That red building has my baby. I run through the street and around the back where I can hear her crying for me. “Baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to!” I lift the lid up on the dumpster with those big hooks and swirls that they used to take her from me. “These are their satanic symbols that were all over the room and I saw them as they reached inside me ripped you out of me!” And I dig for my little girl. I can hear her crying down below all of the bags. Some soft, some with hard plastic. And I see her hand reaching for me. “Please baby, I’m sorry.” She grabs onto my index finger and pulls me into heavier bags of still warm red goo. I open my mouth to call to her put the bag fills it as soon as it’s opened. I try to spit it out but the plastic tears and the chunky redness fills my mouth. Her fingers are stiff around mine and her cries begin to warp. I open my eyes and through a space in the bags I see the beady black eye of some drowning crow.