Compound Fracture (Part 2)

The front door rattled in the jamb, as something solid struck the outside of it once, twice, three times. I was expecting Tina, but approached the door a little nervously, wondering if troublesome teenagers had decided it was my day to be taunted by them. I swung the door open to find her smiling at me, hands fully encumbered by four large bags, stuffed full.

‘What….?’ I began.

‘My forehead,’ she explained, without needing to hear the rest of the question.

‘Who…?’ I began again, looking at the bags.

‘Aunt Trish,’ she said, mind-reading once more.

‘I see. Well, come in, Mystic Meg. Here, let me get those.’

I took the bags from her and we moved through to the kitchen.

‘Actually, the bedroom would be better.’

‘Oh yeah?’ I said mischievously. ‘You finally cracked and got me the gimp costume?’

‘You wish.’

‘Actually, I do.’

She nudged me in the ribs as we squeezed through the bedroom door simultaneously.

‘So, what do we have here?’ I said, for no good reason, tipping the contents of bag number one out onto the bed.

‘She said to take what we want, and to give the rest to the charity shop.’

‘I can’t take any of it. It’s simply too small,’ I said, holding a yellow romper suit up against my chest.’

Tina laughed.

‘I dunno. You can get one moob in.’

‘I do not have moobs,’ I protested. ‘I prefer the term male breasts.’

‘Nice of her, though,’ Tina commented and, whilst what she was saying was most clearly the truth still, somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice piped up: ‘Keep your fucking beak out, Aunt Trish,’ the word Aunt sounded with such a sneer you could almost spread it, so solid yet dripping with venom was it.

‘Yeah, nice,’ I said aloud, absently.

‘Look,’ Tina said delightedly, holding up a pair of tiny pink shoes that, truth be told, were so insufferably cute even the hardest-hearted soul would have felt a lump in the throat.

‘Trouble is, we don’t know about sex. You know me. I’m a rugged, manly sort. I won’t have my lad poncing around the place in blue. Pink, I say. Everything in pink.’

‘You’re being weird,’ Tina told me, and I knew she was right, over-compensating for the anxiety I was feeling by clowning.

‘Yeah, just nerves I guess.’

She hugged me.

‘I’m nervous, too.’

She took my hand in hers, and guided it towards her belly where, dutifully, I placed my palm flat.

‘Nothing yet,’ I said and, inwardly, I was mightily relieved for, if it could not be felt, perhaps it was not even real at all.

 

‘How are you still alive?’ I asked the wasp as I checked in on it, as had become customary each morning and night, a fact which Tina had mocked me for initially but which now, some three weeks since the arrival of the insect, had become a source of fascination for her, too.

‘How long do they live?’ she asked from behind me.

‘A few months,’ I said, eyes on the arthropod, pleased to see it still active, though curious as to its longevity in such conditions. ‘They last a season, basically. Spring to winter. Except the queens. They can live for a few years apparently, hibernating through the worst of the winter.’

‘You a botanist, now?’ she asked.

‘Entomologist. I don’t know the first thing about stamps,’ I joked. She didn’t get it.

‘Why doesn’t he leave?’

“Dunno. It’s weird. And he’s probably a she, it turns out.’

Tina joined me in the study of the small beast.

‘Attenborough?’

‘T’internet.’

‘One or the other. Right, I’m off.’

‘See you tonight?’ I asked.

‘’Bout seven.’

A peck on the cheek, and she was gone.

‘Breakfast?’ I asked my six-legged friend, not bothering to wait for a response, heading to the kitchen and returning with her customary spoonful of warm, sugary water. Without hesitation, now, she took to the metal implement and drank hungrily and, as she fed, I gently stroked her back, confident after all this time that she was no threat. Once finished, again as had become habit, I laid my hand flat on the windowsill, palm up, and she ambled slowly onto my skin, making her way to the centre of my hand where she stopped, motionless, as if her work was done. I raised her up to eye level, and peered at her closely, scanning her from head to…what….not toe, surely….and, as I watched, I saw her sting extend slowly, the tip of her primary defensive weapon brushing against the soft flesh of my palm. She retracted it, then pushed it out once more, as if using it as a sensor, of some sort, or perhaps she was just teasing me, letting me know that, should she choose to, she could inflict pain on me with barely a moment’s notice. A signal to treat her kindly, else face the consequences, or an innocent, automated response, like a cat extending its claws when stretching out through sheer contentedness?

‘I trust you,’ I whispered to her and, as I spoke, the stinger was sheathed for the day.

 

‘My mom was right about you,’ she shouted, spit leaving her mouth, arcing through the air, landing on my cheek.

I laughed sardonically as I wiped away the fluid

‘Course she was.’

‘Oh, that’s funny, is it?’ she demanded, her fury somehow intensifying.

‘Not really. You just always mention your mom when we argue.’

‘Fuck you,’ she bellowed, apparently oblivious to how ridiculous her behaviour was which, in turn, began to spike my annoyance.

‘Don’t tell me. I’ll never amount to much. I’ll make a lousy Dad. I’ll cheat on you if you don’t keep an eye on me.’

She glared at me, silent for the moment.

‘She as crazy as you’re acting. You know that, right?’

She stormed from the kitchen, into the bedroom, and I heard the rattle of the wardrobe doors, then zips being opened.

‘She’s packing,’ I said to the walls, exasperation the over-riding emotion. ‘She doesn’t even live here, but she’s packing.’

More sounds of busy work came from the bedroom, as drawers were yanked open and slammed shut, the volume of the activity entirely for my benefit I was sure so, instead of responding to it, I chose instead to make a cup of tea, listening to the sound of the water slowly boiling instead of to her silliness.

Then silence.

The bedroom door being opened stealthily.

Her footsteps in the hallway, then the front door easing open.

‘Bye, love,’ I called cheerfully.

The front door slammed.

Man, imminent fatherhood truly was a thrill.

 

Her tiny black and yellow legs caused no sensation at all as she crawled over my upturned palm, the weight of the yellow jacket wasp so insignificant in relation to my human form she may as well not have even existed, save for the comfort she had come to bring me, particularly at times of stress, such as this.

‘Not supportive enough, apparently. Not taking the situation seriously enough.’

Yellow ambled around, listening attentively. I lifted my hand to my eye-line to allow me to study her more closely and, when it became clear that she had nothing to add to the conversation, I continued my venting.

‘I’m trying my best, you know. It’s a big thing, becoming a Dad. For us humans, anyway.’

I paused, allowing time for that one to sink in.

‘Not sure how it is in the insect world, but for us mammals, it’s quite a commitment. Our families are small units, three or four people, for the most part, not ten thousand strong like your lot. ’

Still she did not interrupt and, as I watched, she gently stroked her stinger against my skin before retracting it slightly and, unless my eyes deceived me, a single droplet of venom glistened at the tip.

‘Listen, don’t tell anyone, but I’m having a terrible thought.’

I moved her closer to my face.

‘I know it makes me a terrible person, but…..’ I paused before continuing, almost unable to believe that I had conceived of the notion, let alone that I was about to share it, ‘….I kind of hope the baby dies before it’s born.’

She stung me.

I flinched, clasping my hand shut instinctively, trying to crush my tiny friend, failing thankfully as her fragile body tumbled through the air and landed back on the windowsill. I clasped at my throbbing hand, opening my fist to inspect the damage, noting the reddening patch around the wound, sucking at it briefly, not sure if that was the right thing to do, doing it some more, anyway, then I turned to she who had inflicted the pain where she sat, trembling, on the edge of the windowsill.

‘It’s alright,’ I assured her. ‘I deserved that.’ Then, more softly. ‘I forgive you.’

 

Tina’s tears pierced my soul as she screamed her anguish.

I held her in my arms for, what else was I to do? My words to Yellow had been prophetic. The baby had been lost. Was I responsible, somehow? Had verbalising my desire tipped the hand of the universe, compelling the gods that control us all to reach in and suffocate the unborn baby in Tina’s womb, the hand of a deity squeezing tight shut the umbilical cord of the helpless child for long enough to extinguish a life yet to be lived.

‘Why?’ she demanded, her voice high-pitched, broken, the torment she felt so complete she lost the will to support herself, her legs giving way, so I took her in my arms and moved with her to the bed, laying her down gently, sitting beside her as she wept, staying silent, knowing that nothing I could say would be sufficient yet, at the same time, pondering whether a confession was necessary. Not now, certainly, but at some point in the future, perhaps? Tell her that I had wished our child dead. Tell her it was I that had made this happen through the viciousness and wickedness and selfishness of my own thoughts.

My hand throbbed, perhaps in sympathy with the pounding of her heart, and I glanced over at Yellow, who observed us in silence.

I stood and approached her slowly, crouching down so that I could look her in the eyes one last time, for today was the day I was going to remove her from my home, to send her on her way.

‘Time to go,’ I told her and, as expected, she did not respond, so I reached out an index finger, to stroke her one last time and, as my digit made contact, her form shattered, and she crumbled to dust, the perfection of her physical shape utterly destroyed by the thoughtlessness of my action and, as if issued from a place that could not exist, a cold wind swept through the room, and the dust that once was her was carried away with it, an eddy that swirled through the air and out the door, gone forever and, for all the world, it was as if she had never been there at all.

I looked at my distraught partner where she lay, caught somewhere between sleep and abject horror.

‘Oh Tina, what have I done?’ I asked her.

And the silence stung more than the venom ever could.