But I Need You (This Love Hurts 2)

Nostalgia, perhaps.

When I looked up her birth records years ago, I noted her mother was also born in that hospital, delivered by the same doctor. A woman named Meredith was proud to be the lucky doctor who brought them both into the world. Isn’t it a beautiful thing, bringing a new, innocent life into this chaos?

Staring at the monitors while Delilah stares at Cody, I think back on those days, the earliest ones of my life. There’s not much before the barn that I remember. Only the immediate events leading to it. I consider those events my conception. After all, had they never happened, I wouldn’t be who I am.

She was born in the hospital and I was born in that barn.

“I appreciate it, Cody, really I do … but I can’t stay here.” With her arms crossed, Mr. Walsh should know he’s not winning this one. It’s his controlling nature, his arrogance even, in thinking his home is better suited than Delilah’s.

Turning my head to face the window, I can make out their silhouettes through the curtains. From my vantage point, and given their positions, it’s easy to tell they’re having a heated argument. Having the monitors, though, is far more helpful. I should feel guilty that a system I put in place years ago is now being exploited. I should feel many things … and I am, just not the correct emotions.

My phone buzzes with a message, but it’s not one from either of them and I’m far too interested in this development.

Their argument is unfortunate. Not because I wish them pleasantness, or because either of the two are making a better case than the other. It’s unfortunate simply because the raised voices and harsh tones are so very reminiscent of a lovers’ quarrel.

Memories swirl and I lean back against the roof tiles. With the moon setting just beneath the tree line, it’s dark enough that no shadows can survive. They’ll never see me, but I can see them just fine.

And with the monitor in my hand, I can hear them just as clearly.

The tears that streak down Delilah’s face remind me of the first time I went to the hospital that carries so much weight on my conscience this morning.

It was that little girl, with the same tears, who changed my decision. She was there and I didn’t expect it. Had the events been different, and her father been the only one brought in with the unconscious woman losing her breath, I’d have told them all. I would have relied on what a former version of me was told to do, before this new one was conceived.

I could have spent hours mourning over every vision and letting it all spill out, but I kept it all in, swallowed it down and watched her being held in the arms of a monster. And she clung to him. Her head was tucked so carefully under his chin while the woman was whisked away on a gurney.

I remember standing there, thinking this very thought: this is where people are born. The stark white walls and the yells of nurses blurred with the wide eyes of a little girl who was scared. I wonder if she would remember. I doubt she does. I remember it all, though.

The thing about that unit is that most of the people I surrounded myself with were born there. I wasn’t. I was so far gone from my hometown because I ran north when I should have run south. I know that now, but back then I didn’t. I wasn’t born in my hometown either, though.

I was birthed in that barn.

With the stench of pigs, and old dirt that felt like clay. The child who ran away, somehow escaping certain death, thought that structure would be a place to heal. But that’s all he was, a child who should have died. A child who deserved to die for what he’d done.

So I let him. I let that boy suffer, I forced him to watch and accept what he allowed to happen. I didn’t tell anyone what had really occurred and I knew that woman would die.

But the monster was comforting his little girl. How I could I, of all people, take someone’s parent away?

The biggest difference between my birth and so many others, is that they came into this world innocent, being held dearly, if screaming wildly. Well … most of them. The lucky ones.

I became the person I am when I was seeking shelter in that barn from monsters and watching a man who I knew nothing about commit unspeakable acts of horror that haunted every night of that sanctuary.

I suppose it doesn’t matter where or how you’re born, though … much less so than where and how you die.

“I’m leaving, Cody.” Delilah’s voice is raised and it wavers at the end of her statement. The pain she’s feeling is etched into his name. Let her go. She doesn’t need a damn soul comforting her. Least of all his.