Home

The water lapping against my body wakes me slowly. Gravel and dirt on my face in the dark. So cold. So disoriented.

The river. Something Bad happened. I’m not ready to think about it.

My limbs are leaden. Moving hurts through the shuddering, but I have to get up. I have to go home. I have to get to my baby girl. I prop myself up slowly. The cold is in my bones, but I have to get home. I can barely feel the sharp rocks or the flowing water through my frozen nerves, but it’s there. I hurt all over, but I don’t care. I have to go home.

I finally manage to stand. The river is dark, only flickering lights reflecting from the streetlights from the bridge above. I look down at my dress, torn and bloody. Something Bad. Grasping hands and angry mouths – no. The Something Bad can wait. My daughter needs me.

I take a few awkward steps. The shivering almost topples me, but I am of one mind. I take a few more, but fall despite my resolve. It’s doesn’t matter. I have to crawl up the embankment anyways.

I get to street level and pull myself up an overturned garbage can to stand again. It must be late. There isn’t a single car around, nor anyone to beg for help.

I don’t live far. I’ll make it.

I start walking, each step a torturous effort. I’m so fucking cold. I walk through the silent streets, willing myself on.

Something dislodges from between my legs and falls to the sidewalk, making a wet sound in the quiet. I close my eyes and refuse to look at it. It doesn’t matter. Home matters. I keep walking.

My house is dark. My keys are gone, in the purse torn from me by – no. I kneel like an old woman, bracing myself against the door. I push the large flowerpot over by accident, but I find my key. My shivering fingers can barely put it in the lock.

My house is quiet. No crying. I panic. I don’t know how long it’s been since I was here.

My baby.

I crawl up the stairs and down the hall to her room. I again have to drag myself up something to stand, her white, wooden crib. Waste is coming out of the sides of her diaper and there are fine salt tracks from her eyes. My poor little monkey, how long have you been alone? I reach out to hold her to me. She burns to the touch. As I pick her up, she rouses and wails. She must be starving. God knows I am. I clutch her to me, uncaring of the mess. I don’t even smell her – all I smell is the river, even still.

My baby.

So warm.

I try to coo to her, to comfort her, but my throat can only manage a croaking groan. I kiss her head, barely feeling her fine black hair on my lips. I fear dropping her with my unsteady limbs, but I hold her fast. I’m her mother and she is the only precious thing in the world.

I put my lips to her chubby little arms and bite, her warmth pouring down my throat. Hush, little monkey, I want to say as I gulp. Momma’s home.