BEFORE
Pain was like a living thing as yet another contraction tore through the girl. “Help me.” It was a whisper. It was a prayer. It was ignored by the observer standing on the other side of the cage. The burning between her legs intensified as she bore down, her young body seeming to know what to do. The pain faded, but it would be back, she knew. And it was. How had it come to this? A stupid fight with her parents. She’d been so cocky, so sure that she was a professional at life and knew it all. She was a grown-up. Heck, she’d even had sex with Scotty Jernigan, the captain of the football team. At sixteen, she’d thought she had it all figured out. “I hate you!” Those were the last words she’d flung at the man and woman who’d brought her into the world as she stomped from the house, intent on doing things her own way. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered to the memory of their faces. And she was. So very, very sorry. She wanted to say more, make them hear her pleas from the ether, and maybe by some miracle they would find their way to her now. Because she needed them. Not just physically but in every other possible way. But before she could ask them for their forgiveness, pain sank its fangs into her again. She bore down, pushed, gritting her teeth. In the movies, there was a nurse counting to ten. There was a husband lovingly holding up one leg. There was a doctor ready to catch, ready to know what to do if things went wrong. And things were going very, very wrong. “Help me,” she said after the contraction abated. The observer didn’t react. Didn’t speak a word. Didn’t move. The burning grew even stronger, and she looked down, sure that her private parts had burst into flames. But instead of a red glow…there was a head, dark hair swirling wetly over the crown. Bursting into tears, she touched her child for the very first time. A baby. Even as her belly had grown bigger and bigger over the months, it still hadn’t felt real. The sickness. The exhaustion. The cravings. The movements under her skin. It felt real now. The vice contracted around her belly again, turning her attention away from the miracle of what was happening and back to the pain. The terrible, awful, body-splitting pain. She pushed again and again, screaming through the contraction, and the pressure increased. Swelled. Blossomed. Then it was over. Between her legs lay the bloody, squirming child. A girl. Reaching for it with shaky hands, she smacked its bottom, swept her finger in its little mouth. Her addiction to hospital TV dramas was paying off. There was a cry. Soft at first. Then it grew stronger as the baby’s anger and confusion at her new reality increased. “Shhh…” the girl soothed, sticking a finger in the baby’s mouth. She smiled as the little one began to suck. “That’s right, sweet girl. I’ll take care of…ohhh…” The pain this time was a surprise. Wasn’t that part supposed to be over? She had to stop herself from holding the baby too tight as she screamed through gritted teeth. The baby wailed again, and she laid it down beside her. Was there another child? Twins? Was that even possible? But when she looked down between her legs, she saw that the only thing she was delivering was blood. A river of it. She looked at the observer, her panic kicking in again. “Please help,” she cried as agony and fear stabbed through her. As she watched the key slide into the lock of the cage, heard the click of metal on metal as the mechanism opened, hope swept through her. Help was coming, after all. “Perfect,” the observer whispered, voice the very picture of awe. Gloved hands lifted her baby girl while shrewd eyes took in every inch. “Simply perfect.” The girl was weak now, but that didn’t stop her from trying to reach for her child. “Give her to me.” Cold eyes turned her way, making her shiver. As if that single shiver had triggered an avalanche of them, she began to tremble violently. So much blood. So much pain. Would it ever end? She looked at the observer again, clutched at the long black coat only inches from where she lay. “Help. Me.” She swallowed back the tears. “Please.” As she watched, the observer laid the child down. Scissors appeared, as well as two plastic clamps, and she watched in fascination as gloved hands quickly took care of cutting the umbilical cord, effectively separating her from the baby. She nearly wept as the bond between them slipped away. Those same hands then went to work wrapping her tiny baby in a blanket, placing a tiny pacifier in its mouth. All the time, there were the whispers of “perfect” and “I did it.” Other mumbles she couldn’t comprehend. When she cried out again, the knife of pain growing even sharper, the observer turned to her. “I won’t let you suffer.” Something was pulled from the pocket of the long coat the observer wore, a flash of metal that she immediately identified. No. Even as the word echoed in her mind, she looked at her baby one last time, then closed her eyes as the cold steel pressed to the back of her head. A click. Then nothing. The observer was right. She didn’t feel anything anymore.
~~~
Opening a book where a young girl is in distress as she responds to the fear and pain of an unwanted birth--or unexpected birth--automatically places the reader into a situation which is no longer a setup f0r a suspenseful mystery, but rather an increasing realization that danger is possible for any birth that is now happening in reality. And, as the girl in this story finds, there is for many in some states of our union, no help...for medical staff are now forbidden to do all they can to protect their patient...
I don't know why I keep choosing to read books that have now, in today's world, become depressing rather than a brief slide into a fantasy world where good always wins over evil... For, now, even when a book such as Winter's Mourn ends, and justice has been provided, there is still an underlying awareness that, for some, for those who have the misfortune of living in a red state, will, just as this teen who gives birth in a cage, be unable to have standard medical care available...just...across...a...state...line! At least for now.
But who knows just how far the moral deterioration of some American citizens will reach...and continue into further depths of depravity... For, consider the fact that a proven criminal, now under indictment, continue to be supported as the lead candidate for the republican party! How is that possible? Surely after the time period after January 6th, we have seen just how much greed, power, and lies have affected the many innocent americans tainted by the corrupt nature of politicians, judges and more that care nothing about anything but their own desires and power gained by falsifying everything that is happening in today's world, skewed by those who have no real intention of trying to "make American better..." Only their own vested interests...
Casually glancing around, Noah started walking toward one of the barns at the back of the house. “What are you doing?” She hurried to keep up with his long strides in the tall grass. “Just being nosy.” “Pretty sure that’s not okay as it pertains to warrantless searches of private property.” He’d already reached the barn doors and was glancing inside. “I’m not going in,” he pointed out. “Just taking a quick look at her setup.” Winter looked too. No large cages, just open pens. Still, electric tension raised the fine hairs on her arms. “Great. You looked. Satisfied your curiosity. Let’s go.” “You see that?” Noah asked, pointing farther out into the field. A yurt-like structure squatted in the wide-open space. It was round and low, with what looked like a tented top. “Wonder what’s in there?” He headed off in that direction. “Seriously, Noah, come on. We’re already on the edge with Max. What’s it going to look like when we’re caught trespassing? We’ll get pulled off the case.” His response was to whistle a couple of bars of the old Kenny Rogers song, “The Gambler.” Up close, the yurt looked old. The cream-colored walls were mottled with mildew on the outside. Grass had grown deep on all sides, and the semi-permanent decking that sat outside the front door was warped and weathered a grayish green. The door itself was made of thick wood and sounded securely locked when Noah jiggled the handle. He stepped down off the creaking deck and waded through the deep weeds to one of the windows set into the side of the canvas wall. The plastic was murky, yellowed with age, but he peeked in. “Check it out,” he told her. Winter had to go up on tiptoes, and the musty smell of the canvas tickled her nose, but she could make out a round room with benches ringing the walls, sitting on flooring made of the same decking material as the tiny front porch. In the center of the room sat a kind of podium, or altar, with a cross sitting on top. It was flanked by two tall candles. “I wish we could get in and see how fresh that candlewax is. It’s hard to tell, but the place doesn’t look like it’s sat empty since old Wesley’s time.” The sound of rapidly swishing grass behind them caught their attention at the same time someone yelled, “Hey! This is private property!” Rebekah Archer was struggling toward them through the field with a small child on her hip. Her face was red with exertion and fury. “She looks like she’d be immune to your charms right about now,” Winter whispered. Noah lifted a welcoming hand to the irate woman. “Just smile, and try not to look jealous, darlin’.” When he plastered a big, nonthreatening grin on his face, Winter had to admit, if he turned that wattage on her, she’d be inclined to forgive a little casual trespassing. “What are you doing here?” Rebekah demanded, her voice hard. “I saw your card in the door. It’s illegal for you two to be running around on my private property without my express permission.” “I’m sorry,” Noah said, his voice as smooth as fresh-churned butter. “Agent Black, Winter, told me the same thing.” He shrugged, looking almost boyish. “I’m afraid when I saw your cattle out there, it got me homesick, and I wanted to get out here and take a look at your spread. From a purely curious perspective, of course.” Rebekah’s eyes narrowed, and she set down the child she held, holding the little girl’s hand tightly. “Don’t feed me any of that down-home bullsh—” Noah cleared his throat, drowning out the last word. He hunkered down into a crouch and gave one of his winning smiles to the little girl beside Rebekah. Winter didn’t know much about children. She avoided them, usually, as painful reminders of the brother she’d lost. But this one was gorgeous. She looked to be about three years old, plump and sturdy. She had long, dark brown hair pulled up into a ponytail at the back of her head, held in place with a little red bow that matched her red and white checkered dress. Her face was like a porcelain doll, smooth and perfect, with rosebud lips and large blue eyes ringed with dark lashes. “Mama,” she whispered, tugging on Rebekah’s hand. “That man ith pretty.” Noah chuckled. “You’re pretty, too, sweetheart.” “But you hath denth in your cheekth,” she lisped seriously. “Right here.” She pointed one finger to the side of her mouth. Rebekah’s face softened as she looked down at the little girl. “Jenna, it’s time to go up to the house now. Remember? We were going to make cookies this afternoon.”
~~~
Still, there is solace when so many writers are also seeing the proliferation of the loss of personal freedom, and writing stories to "block" its advancement...
Mary Stone is such a writer. Her characters are created within the realm of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, where the worst criminal acts against Americans are handled. Winter Black is the main character, with a back story that has driven her into the FBI, and which continues to haunt her even while she, as a new agent, is assigned her first case. One that involves the discovery of a body buried in a shallow grave in a local well-used park area.
Winter has returned to her home town where tragedy struck in the worst possible way. In turn, though, she was left with a bit of clairvoyance that adds to her image as a top agent... But will that continue coming back where once The Preacher was leaving havoc in the community? And when other graves were found, other officers knew that Winter would want to be involved...
When you get into women being used for research, held in cages, and then the children being taken from the mother, this requires a need to have the case blown wide open! And, that's exactly what happens, with a little bit of romantic interests beginning... And then I turned to check the last song...and found this... Shoulda found the "Stones" first... It really is weird right now... Isn't it?
She could still hear the band playing inside, an offbeat rendition of the Stones’ “Satisfaction,” and wondered if Noah had gotten the phone number yet of the waitress who had been eyeballing him all night. She smiled, thinking about it, but it hurt a little. It didn’t matter, so she pushed it away. The moon hung low and bright in the sky. A hunter’s moon, she thought it was called. That, or a harvest moon. Whatever it was, it was beautiful, bathing the parking lot in a pale, chilly glow. She shivered a little and wished she’d opted for her heavier leather coat instead of a light fall jacket. She clicked the remote to unlock her door and opened it awkwardly with her left hand, sliding into the driver’s seat and automatically hitting the car locks. Tucked beneath the windshield wiper was a note on lined yellow paper that fluttered in the light evening wind. At first, it looked like someone had gone around putting fliers out on every car. But the note was pinned face down so that she could see what it said. Just two words were handwritten in big, masculine-looking letters. Hello, girlie. You look beautiful tonight. It could have been from anyone. But the paper glowed faintly red, and her hands trembled, just once, on the steering wheel in response. She stiffened, her hand automatically easing inside her coat to touch the reassuring weight of her gun. The parking lot was brightly lit. Except for a couple making out a few cars away, there was no one else around. No shadowy figures lurked, waiting to see their message received. She started the car and waited, still scanning the parking lot. Instinct told her the man who had left the note was gone, but still, she waited until the car slowly warmed, pumping lukewarm air out of the vents. She’d left a stretchy pair of knit gloves on the floor. She slipped one on and unlocked her door, opening it just enough to reach out and grab the paper. Shutting the door and locking it again, she didn’t spare the note another glance, just stuffed it in the glove compartment and closed it. The red glow wasn’t visible, but she could still feel its presence. No big deal. Just a serial killer checking in. Reminding her that he was out there somewhere, doing whatever serial killers did in their retirement years...
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