FOETAL POSITION

What happened? What was it now? I remember, I remember. I was sleeping. All tidy like. Resting and waiting and growing slowly. Waiting to be ready. Waiting to be let out. And then suddenly was. But much too soon, too soon. Wasn't ready. She must have known I wasn't ready. She changed her mind. Didn't want me. But then she did. Didn't want me inside her. Slowly growing. Wanted me to stop growing. To bottle me and keep me. So she could talk to me. But that was all. Just talking. She talked, I listened. It has always been that way. Even when I was inside her. I was always listening. I listened to everything. Her heartbeat, sometimes bouncing, sometimes slow and steady. Her stomach rumbling and churning around me. Tossed on stormy seas, all that churning, so noisy. I made her sick, that was the thing. I didn't mean to, it just happened. That's how she found out about me. Didn’t know before, I was so small and quiet. I was waiting, you see. A secret.

So they took me out. I wasn’t ready, I tried to tell her I wasn’t ready, and she needed to wait. Much longer, oh so much longer. But she didn’t want to wait, she couldn’t. She told me this. Over and over. Crying and drinking spiky water, it made me feel ill. Made me giddy and seasick. I told her to wait, but she said she couldn’t. Couldn’t keep me, she was too young. Way too young, only half-formed. Like me. And he. He hadn’t been special, the manboy who helped her make me. He wasn’t special to her. She said I was special. But not enough to keep me inside her. She did keep me though. Suddenly decided. It was important, she said. As a memento, she said. To study, she said. Science, biology, something like that. But they said no. There was an argument, some shouting, but she took me anyway. When I came out, all red and floppy. Like a squashed sea anemone, she said. Took me away in a jar with more spiky water. Didn’t make me sick but made me stick still. Couldn’t move after that, only float a little. Bobbing up and down in the jar she carried me home. Put me in suitcase under bed. I didn’t like. Dark under there. Was scared. Used to dark by then, but only inside her. With her warmth, her blood moving around me. Her talking and sometimes laughing and singing too.

She didn’t talk much, after we got home. No laughing or singing neither. Then things changed again. She moved. Different place. Room in house with other people. Sometimes I saw them, they came in her room. She would talk again. Chat and chat away, but not to me. Only to others. But I could see, I could listen again. Listen to her. Her heartbeat, her blood moving, her breathing. In out. In out. Her words resonating round the walls of the room. Like the walls of my belly pool. Put me on the bookshelf near her bed. I liked this. We were close. When she closed her eyes to sleep at night, I closed my eyes too. Pretended we floated together in sea of dreams. I imagine what she thinking. Where we might go together.

​ We lived there long time together. Me and she. I liked it. Other people came and went. Men and women. Some loved her, some she loved. Sometimes both together. I see them on her bed. I have to check they don’t take her away. From me. But one moved me. One day, she grabbed me. Put cloth over my head. Didn’t like to look at me, they said. Called me ugly and disgusting, they said. Had lots of shouting with her. Didn’t understand why she kept me. Hurt me to hear this. She said I was part of her. Part of her life. Though she made certain choices. I am reminder never to regret. To move on, not forget. She said meaning and value come from every experience. But not life, the other said. No, not life, she said. Not this time. Not for me. I am reminder she said. To stay away from men or take precautions. They laughed then. Both of them. Don’t think they were laughing at me. But not sure. Then her friend that was her lover then moved me to bottom of wardrobe. Down with dirty shoes and dusty gloves. Didn’t like that at all.

Stayed there long time. In the dark. Didn’t like it. Slept most of the time. Lost track of day or night. Missed when she was sleeping. Missed us dreaming together. No sounds or movement around me. Sometimes muffled laughs or cries. When she opened wardrobe to take something out, I hoped it would be me. Startled me from slumbering. From hibernation. I called to her. Pick me up! Talk to me again. She never heard me. Never did.

But one day. Packed into new suitcase. Thought it was the end. Thought it was over. Again. Was she leaving me? But we left together. When she brought me into light again, she was happy to see me. Talked to me again. Told me about our new home. Her new love. Overjoyed to see her. To hear her again. To feel her warm hands around my glass jar. Like before her warm hands embracing her belly pool where I swam. Wanted to do somersaults to show how happy I was. To see her. But can’t do that anymore. Stuck still. No room for swimming in jar. Didn’t matter. Happy to be near her again. Long time in dark. Much much longer than first time. When inside. Things happened whilst away in dark. Don’t know what. But she had changed. Looked older. More lines. More sighs. Something hidden tucked inside, like letter written but never posted. Cut her hair. Some more belly fat. But seemed happy. There was a lady lived with her. They seemed happy.

Lived like this for long time. Together. Three of us. Her and me and she. Happy enough. I see her, every day. Almost. Sometimes more than once. If she has to go out later. Most days I see her. In the morning, after she gets up, before going out. See her back and her front. See her front back-to-front, opposite of her, looking in mirror. Morning is best. That’s our time. Her lover gone to work. She does her hair in mirror. Tells me things. How she feeling, what she doing that day, who comes for dinner. She calls me Er. I call her Um. Um and Er. Like her indecision, she says. Better at decisions now, she says. I think she’s perfect. But don’t like her hair so short. Keep it long, I tell her. Don’t cut it. Don’t shave it again.

Lived like this for long time. Together. Three of us. Um and me and she. Happy enough. But then something happened. Do my best to tell it. I am not deformed, just half-formed. But sometimes I get words wrong.

One day she comes in room. Holding letter. Clutched to her heart. Held tight to her breast. As I wish to be. Reads it standing. Can see her in mirror. Slides down wall opposite. Sitting on floor. Not normal to sit on the floor. Worried. Tell me, tell me! I cry. What is it? What is bothering Um? Doesn’t tell me. Doesn’t say anything. Makes little sounds. Sniffly moans. Then big gasping cry. Don’t like it. Head in hands, she shakes. But not like dancing. Tears come. Come quickly, I see them. One after another. Rolling down river to her lap. Not seen her cry like that since. Since. Tell me, tell me! I cry. What is it? Wish I can comfort her. But what can I do. I am only half-formed.

Later that night, her lover is home. I discover. Letter brings not pain but joy. She says to her lover. Has much explaining to do, she says. They sit on bed together. Holding hands. I cannot see them all. Glimpses in mirror. But I hear them. Hear every word. She had another. Not planned. Not wanted. Forced on her. From a stranger, not a friend. A bad man. She didn’t want. As with me. She didn’t choose it. But unlike me, she kept it. Don’t know why. Don’t understand. Why keep other and not me? This time, she said. This time, she decided to let it grow. Let it grow, then let it go. Give it away to someone who could love it. Someone who wanted one their own but couldn’t make it. Make something good out of something bad. This is what she told her lover. Said also not possible for two women to have child. Not then. Too difficult. People hate them. Would hate child. Life hard enough, she said.

But. But. Now years later. She was looking for her. She found her. She, for she was a she. Wrote letter. Having family herself. Wanted to find birth mother. This is what she said. Her. Her. Daughter. Um cried at this word. The one she had given away. Not me. Not talking about me. But the other. One she had given away. Now having family herself. With her wife. Can you believe it? Um said to her lover. They could not believe it. They cried and laughed. Same time. Did not know that was possible. They read letter again. Together. In silence. But I hear them still. Hear the happy sorrow in their eyes. Things are different now, her lover said. World has changed as I’ve stayed the same. Stuck still in my jar. Did not know this was possible. But they are now. She is having family herself. This made her want to find her. Her mother. My mother. My Um. The one that gave her away. Gave her to better place. To people who had none. With mum and dad. Child needs two. One of each. She never believed this. But this what they said at the time. Too difficult. Too hard otherwise. In those days. So different now. Thank goddess, said her lover. Said she understood. Said she mustn’t blame herself. Did right thing at time. Right thing, for her and baby. Now baby is grown, having family herself. With wife. Wants to meet her. Not like me. I didn’t grow. I am still half-formed.

Not angry. Not sad. Happy that she is happy. Though I don’t have family. Though I stay stuck still inside jar. Still have her. Close to her every day. We still breathe and dream our dreams together. Too young. Couldn’t keep me but didn’t throw me away. Kept me with her. Kept me close. I am happy. I have my Um. Now I have sister too.

by JP Seabright

JP Seabright lives in London and works in information security. When not doing that JP writes, reads and listens to lots of records. With poetry published in three anthologies and short stories published online and in print, JP is (allegedly) trying to complete novel-length fiction and nonfiction work in progress. Occasionally they can be found hanging out on Twitter @errormessage and blogging about music here: https://randomrecordreview.wordpress.com