My Little Angel (First Written 21 March 2011)

I feel numb. I feel dead.

As I sit on this broken bench, as old as I feel, watching the darkness creep over the screaming waves beyond this giant cliff. That darkness creeps over me too, but instead of leaving me in my own gripping madness, it seeps into my skin, into my bones, into the bloody tears of my heart. It wanders silently, a stealthy thief, to steal my thoughts; my soul; my whole being.

I don't fight back. The darkness settles inside there, makes itself at home, for I no longer reside inside. Everything gets darker, the sea gets louder, roaring and crashing onto the rocks below, out of sight to me sat lifeless on the lonely bench.

I am not far from the edge of the cliff. My silent mind speaks up; a memory. A distant memory, beautiful, torturing. He's with me, for a brief moment. We're on the beach, ice cream in cones dripping down our hands. He points at the white birds above with a tiny finger, and squeaks with delight. Life interests him, excites him. He had so much life.

A wind picks up around me and my silent bench. I don't feel it. The sky gets darker around me, comforting me, like his tiny blanket. He's crying so I wrap him up to warm him. He's only a baby, he's tiny. Too tiny. He stops crying when I hold him close, my baby.

The wind tugs at the flaps of my black jacket, at the hem of my black dress. It doesn't tug at the soft object in my hand. It lets me keep that. My eyes begin to water from the cool whispers in the approaching night, but I don't blink them away. I want to pretend I am crying, but that would be a lie. A lie to myself. I cannot cry, I desperately want to, to let him know, but I cannot do it. I cannot lie, either.

My memory digs against my will. It tears at locked doors, and claws at the walls. It wants me to remember, but I don't want to see. I don't want to see what I saw. No mother wants to see these things.

My fingers stroke the soft toy in my hands. I move my head stiffly, dare to look down at the teddy grinning up at me. Its smile is taunting. It laughs at me and I throw it onto the ground. I want the wind to take it away, but then I scramble desperately towards it. I hug it tightly. I can hear him crying. It's okay, sweetheart

  still. It's cold. I feel cold. I know that he will feel cold.

It is darkness in his room. My little sweetheart. I say as I kiss his smooth forehead, and I put my hand to his chest, slowly rising up and down. I smile. We are going to the beach again tomorrow. He loves the beach. I sit back on the hard bench. I realise it's too late to forget. I realise a lock has been wrenched from its door, and I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe as I see him. I know something is wrong, but I don't want to believe it. I can't know for sure. I leave him to sleep a while longer. Then I'll hear him. I'll hear him crying for his breakfast. I'll hear him, he'll cry. Only a little while longer. He was tired last night, all the time on the beach, he was very tired. He will wake up later today because he was tired last night. His room is silent. He lay unmoving in his tiny box, his tiny cot. I don't dare creep closer. That cot suddenly scares me. He scares me. I feel sickened by my own thoughts. The fear of my own child. It becomes afternoon. The room is silent

,EI coo. I start to sing quietly, and he grows silent and settled. I can smell him. He smells sweet, my little sweetheart. I kiss his head and the tears come. The tears come because I know it is not him. I know he is no longer in my arms. I know I let him go. I laid him down in that tiny box.