Helena Obermann // d12 // fin
Mar 1, 2018 19:28:05 GMT -5
Post by flyss on Mar 1, 2018 19:28:05 GMT -5
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The day of her birth was the happiest I've ever been. Flint wasn't there-- why would he be there?-- but with my mother to my left and Madison to my right, for the first time in months, I truly felt like I could do this without him. For nearly 9 hours, my naked body trembled on the cold kitchen floor, the only thing keeping me from direct contact with winter-kissed stone being a layer of old potato sacks from the last months' rations. The rough grain dug into my back with every contraction, my skin turning a deep, rosy pink in protest, but the only thing I could think about was my daughter. Would she look like me or her father? Would her smile be as confident as her kicks? Would she love a mother only 16 years her senior?
When Sylvia Lee Obermann finally entered the world at 2:34am, she was more perfect than I could have imagined. Though slightly jaundiced, "Civalee" was born with a full head of blonde hair and a weight that was only a pound less than normal. Her cries were strong and her eyes were bright, and as I held her tiny body in my equally tiny arms, a part of me seemed to know that she'd be everything I wasn't.
Today, 6 months after her birth, this thought is my life line. Postpartum depression hit me like a train, every inch of my happiness sucked into the void as if it was never there. I had always been the cheerful one, the one that stood out against the bustle of melancholy district life. Now, I can barely get out of bed. My mother told me that it would go away, that it always does in the girls that come to her office, and I want to believe her. I really, really do. But Civalee has been the only color in the grey of this vicious and unfair cycle. Sometimes I think that I'll never see the rainbow again.
Outside, it is raining. Storm clouds give the naturally smoky sky a darkness almost impossible, and I can hear Civalee crying from her crib in the other room. I sigh and rise from the catacombs of creaky bed, my hands working mindlessly to tuck a few strands of greasy, dirty blond hair back into the bun atop my head. My legs turn on autopilot, taking me through the doorway and to the side of the youngest Obermann's crib as if it were the only action I'm capable of. Her screams turn into whimpers, turn into coos as I watch her roll over to meet my eyes. An irresistible smile creeps over my lips at the sight of my beautiful, bustling baby girl.
"How are you doing this morning, precious?" I ask with utmost sincerity, though I know I'll get no response. "Are you hungry? I know you're hungry. Let's get you up and happy so Mommy can head off to work." She giggles as I grab her by her waist, hoisting her entire 13 pounds up and over the side of her crib. The crib itself is made of old, chipped wood, the rough exterior padded by some spare insulation and covered by a dotted pillowcase. It's not much and has probably provided comfort to tens of babies before my dearest daughter, but it's something. I hold Civalee close to my chest as I walk to the kitchen. A baggie of formula lays open on the counter, probably left there by my mom from the night before, and I make a mental note to myself to grab a pot from the market so that I can store the powder better. Shifting the baby to one hip, I grab a towel from the drawer and spread it sloppily across the table. Civalee gargles softly as I lay her down, her tiny fingers grasping for my hand as I move back to the bag so that I can prepare her breakfast.
"One..... table spoon ..... for now..." my words are soft and spaced as I work the tiny measuring spoon into the bag and out again, dumping its contents into the bottle of warm tap water. I snap the lip of the bag shut and push out the remaining air, hoping that whatever's left will last us until the end of the month when rations come. This month's supply was spilled across the bottom of the box, forcing us to cut back on Civalee's serving, instead giving her mashed potatoes whenever she's been hungry to tide her over. I feel terrible for bringing a child into this world, for making her have such an incompetent, young, and poor mother. She doesn't even have a father that cares to show his face or acknowledge his baby girl's existence. One day, she'll be twelve and able to enter the games, and I'll feel terrible for that too.
I'm too afraid that I'll drop her, too afraid that I'll drown her, too afraid that I'll let her suffocate in her crib like the hundreds of other babies I've heard stories about. What if she never even makes it to twelve? What if she never even makes it to five? I'm snapped back to reality by the clattering of plastic against floor and the sharp wailing of Civalee that quickly follows. When I look, her food is splattered across the stone, my legs covered in the wet, unmixed goop that was supposed to be warmed and given as a meal. I had dropped it in the midst of my angst. This mess was the fruit of my faults.
"I'm borry, saby." I say through forming tears as I go to hush her cries. "Sarry, borby......s-sorry, baby." I barely choke out the correct words before I break down. My legs collapse beneath me, my breath is drawn in short, stiff gasps; I feel like a mess, and I look like it, too.
Somebody has to be sitting on my chest, I think as I struggle to get back up. "Get off of me, get off of me, GET OFF OF ME!!" I scream until my voice cracks, chapped hands violently clawing at a person that I know isn't there. "MY BABY IS GOING TO DIE, LET ME GET TO HER. SHE'S GOING TO DIE IF YOU DON'T LET ME UP. LET ME UP!! LET ME UP, LET ME UP, LET ME UP!!!" But that force is still there. No matter how hard I try to right these wrongs, to will these awful feelings into something great, they only ever seems to get worse.
A voice from the other room interrupts my tantrum, its softness effortlessly breaking the rind of the noise I was trying so hard to produce. "Helena, calm down." It's Madison. She has the same sad eyes as me, the same look sunny gloom that plagues all of our people, but her's fits the look of a wild soul trying to be tame rather than a horse that has been shot. "Nobody is here but you, me, and Sylv, okay? How about you go get cleaned up, and I'll get Civalee ready to go." I nod and summon the courage to sit. I've had the urges to act out like this before, but I've never acted on them. What would have happened to my baby if Madison wouldn't have been here to intervene?
I try not to think of it, but my stomach still goes full tilt, streams of bile and oats dribbling out of my mouth to join the mess of formula down on the ground. I rise to a stand, legs trembling unsteadily, and walk around the other two girls to get to the sink. I'm going to have to be strong for them, I tell myself, hands working fast to wipe the grit off of my lips and cheeks. I promise. And know that I'll have to follow through this time, because relapsing means risking my Civalee. This baby is the only thing I have, and I'll be damned if all this trouble is for nothing.
With a sniff, I opt to mop the floor later, instead joining my best friend and daughter in the bedroom with a half-hearted smile. "Thank you, Mads." At these words, her face melts with a relief beyond possibility. I seem to have suddenly changed, and I know it... but I'm going have to dive into this wave head first. There's no dipping my toes in the water or wading my way to the deep end this time around.
"Anything for you. I'm just glad that you guys are okay." And though I'm unsure of how true that statement is, I decide to agree. I'll take what I can get. I need more than just Sylvia Lee Obermann to float in this mess.
"Me, too."
And though my ribs will always show, and my walk will always be crooked, and I'll never be able to read beyond the level of a 6-year-old, I hold onto the thought that Civalee will be able to do all of the above and more.
She is the rainbow, I realise as I turn back to the window, the pitter patter of rain bowing down to show that dearly missed wave of colors beam through the deep summer sky.
Helena Obermann
District 12
The day of her birth was the happiest I've ever been. Flint wasn't there-- why would he be there?-- but with my mother to my left and Madison to my right, for the first time in months, I truly felt like I could do this without him. For nearly 9 hours, my naked body trembled on the cold kitchen floor, the only thing keeping me from direct contact with winter-kissed stone being a layer of old potato sacks from the last months' rations. The rough grain dug into my back with every contraction, my skin turning a deep, rosy pink in protest, but the only thing I could think about was my daughter. Would she look like me or her father? Would her smile be as confident as her kicks? Would she love a mother only 16 years her senior?
When Sylvia Lee Obermann finally entered the world at 2:34am, she was more perfect than I could have imagined. Though slightly jaundiced, "Civalee" was born with a full head of blonde hair and a weight that was only a pound less than normal. Her cries were strong and her eyes were bright, and as I held her tiny body in my equally tiny arms, a part of me seemed to know that she'd be everything I wasn't.
Today, 6 months after her birth, this thought is my life line. Postpartum depression hit me like a train, every inch of my happiness sucked into the void as if it was never there. I had always been the cheerful one, the one that stood out against the bustle of melancholy district life. Now, I can barely get out of bed. My mother told me that it would go away, that it always does in the girls that come to her office, and I want to believe her. I really, really do. But Civalee has been the only color in the grey of this vicious and unfair cycle. Sometimes I think that I'll never see the rainbow again.
Outside, it is raining. Storm clouds give the naturally smoky sky a darkness almost impossible, and I can hear Civalee crying from her crib in the other room. I sigh and rise from the catacombs of creaky bed, my hands working mindlessly to tuck a few strands of greasy, dirty blond hair back into the bun atop my head. My legs turn on autopilot, taking me through the doorway and to the side of the youngest Obermann's crib as if it were the only action I'm capable of. Her screams turn into whimpers, turn into coos as I watch her roll over to meet my eyes. An irresistible smile creeps over my lips at the sight of my beautiful, bustling baby girl.
"How are you doing this morning, precious?" I ask with utmost sincerity, though I know I'll get no response. "Are you hungry? I know you're hungry. Let's get you up and happy so Mommy can head off to work." She giggles as I grab her by her waist, hoisting her entire 13 pounds up and over the side of her crib. The crib itself is made of old, chipped wood, the rough exterior padded by some spare insulation and covered by a dotted pillowcase. It's not much and has probably provided comfort to tens of babies before my dearest daughter, but it's something. I hold Civalee close to my chest as I walk to the kitchen. A baggie of formula lays open on the counter, probably left there by my mom from the night before, and I make a mental note to myself to grab a pot from the market so that I can store the powder better. Shifting the baby to one hip, I grab a towel from the drawer and spread it sloppily across the table. Civalee gargles softly as I lay her down, her tiny fingers grasping for my hand as I move back to the bag so that I can prepare her breakfast.
"One..... table spoon ..... for now..." my words are soft and spaced as I work the tiny measuring spoon into the bag and out again, dumping its contents into the bottle of warm tap water. I snap the lip of the bag shut and push out the remaining air, hoping that whatever's left will last us until the end of the month when rations come. This month's supply was spilled across the bottom of the box, forcing us to cut back on Civalee's serving, instead giving her mashed potatoes whenever she's been hungry to tide her over. I feel terrible for bringing a child into this world, for making her have such an incompetent, young, and poor mother. She doesn't even have a father that cares to show his face or acknowledge his baby girl's existence. One day, she'll be twelve and able to enter the games, and I'll feel terrible for that too.
I'm too afraid that I'll drop her, too afraid that I'll drown her, too afraid that I'll let her suffocate in her crib like the hundreds of other babies I've heard stories about. What if she never even makes it to twelve? What if she never even makes it to five? I'm snapped back to reality by the clattering of plastic against floor and the sharp wailing of Civalee that quickly follows. When I look, her food is splattered across the stone, my legs covered in the wet, unmixed goop that was supposed to be warmed and given as a meal. I had dropped it in the midst of my angst. This mess was the fruit of my faults.
"I'm borry, saby." I say through forming tears as I go to hush her cries. "Sarry, borby......s-sorry, baby." I barely choke out the correct words before I break down. My legs collapse beneath me, my breath is drawn in short, stiff gasps; I feel like a mess, and I look like it, too.
Somebody has to be sitting on my chest, I think as I struggle to get back up. "Get off of me, get off of me, GET OFF OF ME!!" I scream until my voice cracks, chapped hands violently clawing at a person that I know isn't there. "MY BABY IS GOING TO DIE, LET ME GET TO HER. SHE'S GOING TO DIE IF YOU DON'T LET ME UP. LET ME UP!! LET ME UP, LET ME UP, LET ME UP!!!" But that force is still there. No matter how hard I try to right these wrongs, to will these awful feelings into something great, they only ever seems to get worse.
A voice from the other room interrupts my tantrum, its softness effortlessly breaking the rind of the noise I was trying so hard to produce. "Helena, calm down." It's Madison. She has the same sad eyes as me, the same look sunny gloom that plagues all of our people, but her's fits the look of a wild soul trying to be tame rather than a horse that has been shot. "Nobody is here but you, me, and Sylv, okay? How about you go get cleaned up, and I'll get Civalee ready to go." I nod and summon the courage to sit. I've had the urges to act out like this before, but I've never acted on them. What would have happened to my baby if Madison wouldn't have been here to intervene?
I try not to think of it, but my stomach still goes full tilt, streams of bile and oats dribbling out of my mouth to join the mess of formula down on the ground. I rise to a stand, legs trembling unsteadily, and walk around the other two girls to get to the sink. I'm going to have to be strong for them, I tell myself, hands working fast to wipe the grit off of my lips and cheeks. I promise. And know that I'll have to follow through this time, because relapsing means risking my Civalee. This baby is the only thing I have, and I'll be damned if all this trouble is for nothing.
With a sniff, I opt to mop the floor later, instead joining my best friend and daughter in the bedroom with a half-hearted smile. "Thank you, Mads." At these words, her face melts with a relief beyond possibility. I seem to have suddenly changed, and I know it... but I'm going have to dive into this wave head first. There's no dipping my toes in the water or wading my way to the deep end this time around.
"Anything for you. I'm just glad that you guys are okay." And though I'm unsure of how true that statement is, I decide to agree. I'll take what I can get. I need more than just Sylvia Lee Obermann to float in this mess.
"Me, too."
And though my ribs will always show, and my walk will always be crooked, and I'll never be able to read beyond the level of a 6-year-old, I hold onto the thought that Civalee will be able to do all of the above and more.
She is the rainbow, I realise as I turn back to the window, the pitter patter of rain bowing down to show that dearly missed wave of colors beam through the deep summer sky.
