Pop Goes the Weasel

95

She pulled the freezer door open and let her forehead rest on the cool interior. Her head throbbed, the livid bruises on her face pulsed and she felt that she might be sick at any moment. The freezer compartment had frosted up through neglect and it felt like a cool, round hand cupping her face. For a moment, she felt at peace, almost calm. But then the cries started up again and reality bit.

Opening the fridge door, she pulled a Coke from the shelf. She drank it down in one go. Then, turning, she walked out, leaving the fridge door ajar, its weak light giving the dirty lino a sickly yellow hue.

Amelia was lying on the bed, screaming with hunger. She stared down at her baby for a minute, hating its dependence on her. Why her? Why couldn’t this girl have been born to someone proper? Someone decent? She was the offspring of a whore and a killer. Damned before she’d even started.

Her head screamed worse than ever as the baby’s cries rose in volume, so she quickly scooped her up and in one easy motion lifted up her top and guided Amelia’s puckering mouth to her nipple. As her baby began to feed, she felt lightheaded and dizzy. She hadn’t slept at all last night, consumed with rage and despair, and now she felt weak and unsteady. Settling Amelia in the crook of her arm, she wriggled her way up the bed, so she could rest her head for a few moments. Amelia’s tight grip on her nipple never weakened, the child blissfully unaware of her mother’s anguish.

When she awoke moments later, Amelia was lying in her arms, sated and asleep, the milky residue of her feed coating her lips.

During the course of the night, she had thought of many ways to deal with her problem. At first she thought about leaving Amelia on the steps of South Hants Hospital or even giving her to someone in the street, but she knew she didn’t want to hand her over to strangers now. She had lost faith in the milk of human kindness. Who knew what they might do to her? What torments she might endure? She couldn’t go back to her family obviously, so that meant it was down to her.

After that, it was just a question of how she would do it. She couldn’t strike her. Couldn’t face the prospect of using a pillow either. Despite everything, she knew her nerve would fail her. Better to do it during a feed. Amelia liked the bottle well enough and if she crushed up the pills small… The chemist’s would be open soon and she could get what she needed. Then it would all be over.

As simple as that. And yet she knew it would be the hardest thing she’d ever have to do. She knew she was bringing peace, so why did it twist her guts to think about it? She had killed without qualm, had enjoyed exterminating those filthy little weasels who called themselves fathers and husbands. Pop, pop, pop. But now she hesitated. It was not just that the baby was her flesh and blood – it was what she felt. She had fought it for months now, had tried to make herself hate the little thing, but she couldn’t deny it any more. She felt pity for it.

And that was an emotion she hadn’t felt for a long, long time.