Beginnings

It begins with a sharp cry. I do not recognise the noise as my own. I do not realise I have lips, or lungs. My new eyes take in the shapes before me, the bright light, colours. My new mind does not know the words for these things. It cannot comprehend them.

A woman is holding me, but I do not know this. She wraps me, cradles me, offers me to the man beside her. I do not see the look of disgust on his face, do not understand that this man is my father, and that he will never love me.

A woman is crying softly, but I am oblivious. My mother stares at me, fearful and horrified through her tears. I do not see that look harden to bitterness as her eyes go to my father.

A nurse holds me against her, she rocks me softly until I slip into sleep. Her eyes are troubled, worry furrows her brow. Perhaps she understands what I cannot, that I am a baby whose beginning is a mere hint at the storms to come.

I do not feel the lips that she presses quickly to my forehead, but if I had they may have felt like a prayer.