WHIRLPOOL 

Maelstrom Mud
By Tessa Harvey


    A young girl sat in the dark watching the window. She saw beautiful stars, a partial bright moon, but still her parents had not returned. Her baby would not settle, so small and twisting as though in pain. "No you can't come with us to the hospital. You would shame us," her mother had snapped while dad had pretended to be busy finding coats, car keys, though they were always exactly in their right place.
    Helen began to rock in grief, still watching the sky, the road, aching physically, aching for baby Mary, crying for her lost child.
    Her aunt snapped, "Stop it!" She had come into the room. "They died in a car crash." Her voice was flat, toneless. 
    "Baby," whispered Helen. Yes, yes, thought her aunt, but then, "No, your baby was still at the hospital." Slamming the door, she called, "I don't want you. I can't manage, not with a baby."
    Carefully, Helen gathered her small belongings. "I will find her," she quietly cried, sad for her parents. The bedroom door was locked but years ago her parents had made her a little house with a hidden door, very small which led to the kitchen. A door of HOPE, long forgotten.

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