The Death of My Child: A Short Story
My child is gone. My child is somewhere I cannot be. He had an innocent look and beautiful blue eyes, just like yours. People say I need to get over himāto get over someone so dear, to get over someone I gave life to. They want me to move on. My eyes are pitch-black and swollen from countless sleepless nights and endless crying. He was my child, and now he is just a face I see in the corner of my houseāa reminder of a certain event. These wounds on my arms don't lie; I have been hurting myself ever since. It is not enough to suffer mentally; I need to hurt myself physically. I know my child wouldn't want that, but a mother knows best, right? With this pen and paper, I am gradually forming a mirror, a reflection of myself for you to see, even though we're far away from each other. Can you recognize me now? Am I still the same woman in your eyes?
I've been writing and waiting for a response from you, but I havenāt received anything back. I wonder if you canāt stand me now that heās goneāor maybe you couldnāt stand me at all back then. Am I just a crazy woman? A worthless human being; not worthy of life, not worthy of love. And yet, Iāve given life and love. I want to live a life full of love. I want to live. Having a son was a miracle, but it has broken my heart. I know he wouldnāt want to hurt his motherās heart, but heās such a naughty little critter. Then again, every kid is.
Do you remember how he always looked at the sky for long periods of time? I was fascinated, but you were concerned. No, youāre not a bad personāyou gave him a chance, a way to go through life without pain. The next day, you bought him ridiculously large sunglasses so he could look at the sky without damaging his eyes. You were always a good father. Have I always been a bad mother? I will never know; youāve never told me. Perhaps your silence is the answer to that question. Tell me, am I stuck in limbo or purgatory? Why does my back ache every time I wake upādo the pills help? Thatās it. If I regularly took the pills, I wouldāve come to my senses, and you wouldāve responded, right? I am awareāaware that Iām a sick person. I should be ashamed of myself. I donāt want to be sick; I donāt want to grieve. But here I am, and it has been months. You have to trust me that I don't take pleasure in doing these, I feel very lonely, you've left and he has left. Why did you all leave?
My life is different now; I guess yours is too. There are big holes scattered everywhere on the floor. I donāt want to fall into one of these holesāthe endless abyss they carry is terrifying for oneās conscience. Am I going to go on and on like this? I donāt want to. You just need to respond to my letter, but in case you donāt, Iām going to keep going on and on.
I canāt forget him. Every time I walk and every time I breathe, Iām always on the verge of breaking into tears. I donāt know what it is. Maybe itās the chill in the air, the thought of his face, or the pills I wasnāt taking. What have I done to him? I swear it was for his own good! Now that heās gone, I bet heāll appreciate his mother. Itās hardāitās hard for me to accept the fact. Ever since that accident, I canāt bear to hear a droplet, a splash of water, or even a gush of it. It drives me insane. Yes, thatās right, Iām still sane.
Shortly after he was diagnosed with the illness, you started acting differently toward me. You stopped showing me love, but still, I cared for him. You know how hard it was to see him in paināI know you doābut you had to leave us for work. He was screeching, screaming, and waking up in the middle of the night coughing blood. It was horrible for him. I couldnāt sleep at all, and now that heās gone, I still canāt sleep. It is a small price to pay as a mother. I just wish you would answer my letters because I cared for our child. He couldnāt eat anything but plain, flavorless porridge. While you were gone, I watched him suffer every day. His life was miserable, and I couldnāt stand hearing him cry in agony. I carried him out to the backyard so he could savor the beauty of the world, hoping that the birds, the clouds, and the greenery would motivate him. And he smiled. It was only a momentary glimpse of happiness, I suppose.
While you were gone, we always... itās hard for me to recount this part of the story. It truly is hard for me. I donāt ever want to unfold this part of the story. But since this is the last time, Iāll do it.
Before we were pronounced husband and wife, you and I would talk about the kind of house we wanted to buy. You wanted a house in a quiet suburban neighborhood, and I only wanted a pool in the backyard. However, you couldnāt afford the "quiet" part of the house, but you were able to get a clipper pool for the backyard. We loved that pool so muchāyou and I were always up for a dip. To escape the hustle and bustle of the neighborhood, we would slowly lower our heads underwater and stay there, embracing each otherās bodies. It wasnāt perfect, but it was our way. Our lives had been full of imperfectionsāit was the whole world, and God, against us. After a long marriage, itās improbable for a mother not to want to go on in life without a child of her own. A mother feels as if sheās not worthy of all this love. Sheās full of love, and she wants to share that love; itās only fair for her. When I told you the news, you hugged me in excitement, and I was almost in tears. I love you so much. Although our child was imperfect, you would still support us financially.
Our child suffered for far too long, and I couldnāt bear that for him, you know? I had lingering thoughts, and you would slap me across the face, calling me names. I could smell itāyou were affected, werenāt you? The smell of alcohol was thick, and I could sense it from miles away. You had become so abusive that I had to wake up quietly and go to the bathroom to cry. I didnāt want that life. You have to understand that Iām not a martyr; I donāt die for somebody elseās sins. Oh, what am I talking about? Iāve been beating around the bush for far too long. The death of my child was not in vain. Sometimes, living in suffering is not the best option, especially when youāre born to suffer at an early ageāyou still have a long road of suffering ahead. āHe was just a child,ā thatās what you will say to me, right? That a child is not worthy of death. That a child is not mature enough to choose. Thatās what everybody will say. But I am his mother, and I knew that if he were conscious and aware of the situation he was in, he would choose death over everything. For those who judge himāgo ahead. Slip into the shoes of my child and tell me, would you not do the same?
It was a quiet morning in the neighborhood, strangely quiet. After another sleepless night of caring for him, I finally found a brief moment of peace, though I still needed to care for him. The sun cast its golden light on the green leaves of the trees, the grass glistened with dew, and the pool remained untouchedāit was like the first time we stepped into this house.
I held him close in my arms, his tiny body so still, his eyes wide open but unfocused. He wasnāt crying. For once, there was no screaming, no coughing, no agony. Just silence. But even that silence felt like a lie.
I stood by the pool, gazing into its still waters. Memories of us flooded my mindāhow we would laugh and splash, escaping the chaos of the world by submerging ourselves. I could almost feel your arms around me again, holding me underwater, where everything was quiet, perfect for just a moment.
I looked down at him and whispered, āDo you remember, sweetheart? Do you remember how peaceful it was?ā But he didnāt answer. He only stared back, his lips pale, his face drawn. My heart ached as I realized heād never known the peace I was speaking of.
The water glimmered in the sunlight, so calm it felt unnatural. I wanted him to see beauty, even if for a moment. I lowered myself onto the edge of the pool, dipping my foot into the cold water. It sent a shiver through me, but I ignored it. Slowly, I slid in, holding him tightly against my chest.
He couldnāt swimāI knew that. His body was too frail, his limbs too weak. I held him as the water enveloped us, his small feet splashing faintly, sending ripples across the surface. He smiled, just barely, and for a fleeting moment, I felt the warmth of hope.
But it was momentary. His smile faded, and his face contorted in the pain that never truly left him. I couldnāt bear it anymoreāthe knowledge that his suffering outweighed any brief moment of happiness. My chest tightened, my ears rang, and the stillness of the neighborhood pressed down on me.
The birds perched silently on the power lines. The air felt heavy, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
With trembling hands, I shifted my grip and pressed his head underwater. My entire body shook as he thrashed for just a second, and thenāstillness.
The water stilled once more, reflecting the unbroken sky. My hand lingered beneath the surface, numb and unfeeling, as my eyes rose to meet the heavens. Tears streamed down my face as I whispered, āIām sorry. Iām so sorry.ā
I told myself it was for his sake. I couldnāt let him suffer anymore. I wanted to believe it was quick and painless, that he finally found peace. But the silence afterwardāit wasnāt the peace I had imagined.
It suffocated me.
I stayed there, the water lapping against my arms, staring at the poolās edge where his small body floated. I didnāt move, couldnāt move, as the enormity of what Iād done sank in.
Was I selfish? I told myself I wanted to save him, to take away the pain he couldnāt understand. But now I wonderāwas it really for him? Or was it to save myself from watching him suffer?
The birds flew off, their wings cutting through the stillness. The pool reflected only the emptiness above.
Does this make me a monster?