Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight, New Moon, or Eclipse. Those rights are to Stephenie Meyers.
He had the most beautiful eyes.
My poor, tiny child; he was so fragile, and yet so precious. Even the angels would weep at the handsome little son I bore. He was a gift from God, though I only had him for a short amount of time. The heavens envied his beauty and decided to take my baby away from me. My gift from God was suddenly snatched before I could even hold him; before I could even say good-bye.
I remember the day clearly. I was suffering from excruciating labor pains but I knew that all those months of waiting were well worth it. After what seemed like an eternity and all the sickness that came with the process, I would finally become a mother. I would be able to hold my child. The future flashed before my very eyes and I could almost imagine the many children that would come after the one I was to birth.
I followed the doctor's instructions and pushed as hard as I could. Fresh tears streamed down my face as I heard the whimpers of a newborn filter the air. He was here. My son was finally here. I held out my hands, wanting to hold my baby close to me, but I was denied. My happiness was killed when I heard frantic shouts. Something was wrong. I didn't understand and watched as a flood of nurses and my doctor whisked away with my child.
He couldn't breath, they said. I found that impossible. Just minutes ago I heard my cherub scream cries of life. He would be fine, they said. I was convinced when I looked into they doctor's eyes. He didn't seem to worry, so I relaxed as the sedative the nurses gave me made my eyes heavy with sleep.
I awoke hours later and called for a nurse. Surely I could see my baby now. Everything had to have been fine; everyone told me so. A nurse finally came in to see me. When I requested to see my baby, she stared at me with a pained expression. She began to smother and coo me as if I were a child and attempted to persuade me to rest but I was stubborn. She sighed and called for a wheelchair.
I found that odd-couldn't they just bring me my precious boy? Surely he was yearning for nourishment and crying with hunger by now.
A nice young man helped me into the wheelchair and led me to another room. I smiled cheerfully and felt pure rhapsody at the thought of me being a mother. I longed to see my son. The warm feeling soon faded. I was led to a crib which had my surname written on it along with a number, and there lay a whimpering child.
Why was he so small?
The little form barely moved. I immediately stared at the grave faces surrounding me and at that moment I knew everything wasn't fine; everything wasn't perfect. A doctor walked up to me and knelt down to my side. He spoke of many things I didn't understand; why was my son barely breathing? I stared numbly as the small baby's chest rose and fell weakly. The whimpering ceased moment's ago--he didn't even open his eyes.
Nothing to worry about, he said. I didn't understand. If it was nothing to worry about, why wasn't my son cradled in my arms at this very moment? The doctor tried to soothe me so I wouldn't have a nervous fit and lulled me into a false state of tranquility. When I reached to try and touch my son's arms, I was restrained.
He was weak, they told me. Fragile like glass. The slightest touch could cause him pain and I felt the tears stream down my face, but complied. I didn't want to hurt my boy; he was in enough agony. Why was it nothing to worry about when I couldn't even kiss my own son?
The following day I asked to be with my son, and every day after that. I spoke to him as he lay there unmoving. It worried me but I trusted my doctor and just talked to my little boy. I told him stories of the future we would have, about his father, and many childish dreams I could think of. I smiled and hummed him a lullaby. Over the short period of time I spent with him since his birth, I was completely and incandescently in love with the beautiful pale-faced child I brought into the world.
As frail as it may have been, it was love.
I yearned to reach out and caress his forehead, to feel the soft newborn skin, to kiss away all illness from his body. I wanted to promise him things that I couldn't possibly do-I wanted to tell him we would be together soon.
I awoke that morning and beamed with joy. It wouldn't be long till I could take him home; it had been more than three days. By this time I could roam freely and see my little boy when I pleased. I made my way to his room but was stopped by the doctor.
I stared at him with a questioning look as he sat me down to talk. Perhaps he was going to tell me I could take my son home, I thought foolishly. Maybe my child was healthy and strong enough to live his life freely. I grinned at my doctor and bombarded him with questions. Nothing would prepare me for what happened next.
He was dieing, the doctor said. He then told me that I should let him go now before he was in any more pain.
I felt the sudden chill freeze me in place. Dieing? That wasn't possible. My son was recovering. He was supposed to be healthy in just a short amount of time. Let him go? I refused. There was nothing to let go-he was there-in that very room they blocked me from. I glared at the doctor and demanded to sit with my son. His persuasion didn't work and he allowed me in.
I sat there for hours and stared at my son's motionless form. He drew very short breaths; his chest barely rose anymore. I didn't want to believe it. My son would be fine. He wouldn't die-he couldn't. He was a strong, normal child just like any other baby. I stayed with him the whole night. I didn't move. I didn't sleep. I didn't eat. I just watched him as he lay there, as still as time.
Let him go?
That was absurd. How could I let my son go? What kind of mother would let their child die? I would do everything in my power to make sure my son would breathe. I would raise him with his father; he would get married, take care of me, and watch as I died. That's how it was supposed to be. A parent should never outlive their own child.
I heard the nurses' whisper. I was selfish, they said. Selfish? How was it selfish to want my own son to live? How was it selfish to love my own son? How dare they? How do they have the nerve to gossip about how self-centered I was when my son was perfectly fine?
The sun didn't shine the next day.
I refused to eat or sleep. I peered at my child through heavy eyes. The doctor tried to talk to me once more but I ignored him. How could someone ask a parent to kill their own child? It was unfathomable. He said if there was the slightest chance of my son's survival, he wouldn't even be asking me to let him go. I couldn't go through with it. I shook my head at once and continued to gaze at my little angel.
Hours passed along with the refusal of comfort. I just sat there and waited. My attention was focused on the single most important person in my life. Exhaustion swept throughout my body, but I fought it off. I absolutely refused to rest without knowing if my son would wake up.
And then in a blink of an eye, it happened.
I didn't know whether it had been hours or minutes, but my son's chest didn't rise or fall anymore. I couldn't speak. I couldn't move. I couldn't feel. No. It wasn't over. He was just resting. He was alright-he had to be alright. The doctor came in, what seemed an eternity later, and saw my rigid frame. He walked over to the crib and shook his head and said the words I didn't want to hear. I felt the haunting words echo in my mind.
Dead, dead, dead…
Nurses came in and looked at my son. They tried to reach for him but I blocked their way, screeching with horror. They couldn't touch him. They would hurt him. He wasn't allowed to feel anymore pain.
Dead, dead, dead…
I felt myself being restrained by various people. Why? He barely got to live. So gentle…so weak…I stared at the doctor, pleading with him. He picked up my son's lifeless form and shook his head. Anguish washed over my body as I fell to the floor, sobbing and begging to the doctor. I beseeched him to hold my son, just once. The doctor hesitated and knelt down, handing my little angel to me.
I cradled the motionless form of my son. Never again would I see his beautiful eyes open, nor watch his chest rise and fall. Never again would I get to sing him a lullaby, or chase away the monsters' in his dreams. Never would I get to see him grow up into a handsome boy and get married. It hurt to breath as tears streamed down towards my son.
It wasn't fair. I wept in the arms of one of the many nurses and found no comfort from any of the consoling prayers or words. I felt the injection of another sedative to take me away to land of misery and despair; to a land without him. The doctor slowly took my son away from me and walked out of the room.
I was left with silence. The only sound that could be heard was the violent choked sobs escaping my throat.
The days passed even though time had stopped. I was restrained after I went into hysterics, screaming when I woke up realizing my child was gone.
I was released from the hospital and readied myself for my son's funeral. I stood in the damp rain and watched as prayers were said on behalf of my baby boy. My gaze fell beyond the tombstone and to the ocean that restlessly thrashed against the jagged cliff. The world mourned with me, angered, that such a beautiful life ended far too soon.
I didn't care. I writhed as an intense pain shot throughout my body, not out of my sorrow, but out of the fact I had nothing left. One by one, everyone left the graveyard and back to their home. No one cared. Not as much as I did. I laid a bouquet of forget-me-nots on my son's small grave and fell down into the muddy earth.
The rain continued to fall, mourning with me at my loss. The ache was unbearable, but I dealt with it. My son had suffered far worse, and it was my fault. I let him die. I swore that I would do everything in my power to let him live and I failed. It was my fault. I did not blame God for taking away my child.
I tried to stand but I couldn't. I lay there, covered in the dirt of my son's grave. My whole body trembled as I made several more attempts to stand, but yet again failed. It felt as if someone tore out my heart, and yet, I was still alive. I felt the tears spill from my eyes and mix with the rain. I was broken. My whole being and everything I lived for was gone.
No matter how much I tried to piece myself together, something—someone—was missing. I crawled towards the edge of the cliff and stared at the welcoming ocean. It was hell in the form of water-a boundary to the unknown. I grabbed on to the, feeling no pain as rusted nails pricked my skin, oozing drops of crimson blood. I rose and stared intensely at the ruthless waves crashing against rocks below me and closed my eyes.
I flung myself off the cliff and thought of one thing before I collided with the jagged edges of death. I thought of him, my son, my angel. A smile reached my lips for the first time in days as I realized something.
I let him go.
"What was it brought you up to think it the thing, To take your mother-loss of a first child, So inconsolably-in the face of love. You'd think his memory might be satisfied-'"
"Home Burial", Robert Frost