The liTTle i’ ve learned (poeTry 1st place) - Saidu Tejan-Thomas, Jr

FICTION SECOND PLACE

Our Unborn Child

by Tavia LaShae’ Gilliam

The thick smell of blood strangled me as I stopped to catch my breath. My eyes scrolled down to the ground, and there he was—at my feet—breathless. I looked at my right hand and loosened my grip. The harsh sound of a knife pierced my ear as it hit the floor beneath my feet. A feeling of cold relief fell over my body. I didn’t have any regrets. This was his fault. He did this to himself. He had it coming.

People often ask me if I ran. Of course I ran. I had just gotten my freedom back, and I wasn’t about to let it go easily. After about a quarter of a mile, I heard the faint police sirens headed towards my house. I kept running. There was nothing but woods. I began to grow tired after another mile so I stopped and sat against the nearest tree. After a few minutes of catching my breath, I felt my eyes growing heavy.

Just as I was beginning to dose off, I heard a noise. I paused. There it was again. “Who’s there?” I called out. No answer. I peeked around the tree and saw a wolf devouring an injured deer. The wolf’s fur was black as my hair and its eyes were just as brown. It’s funny because yesterday I would’ve only been able to feel sorry for the poor deer, but that night, I was cheering for the wolf. I mean, that deer probably deserved it right? Just like my husband deserved what I had done to him. The sound of the deer’s insides between the wolf’s teeth sent a shiver down my spine. I watched the deer take its last breath as it stared into my eyes, or rather into my soul. I felt a tear run down my cheek. It must have been really windy that night or something. I quickly wiped the salty drop away. I was running for my freedom. No weakness allowed.

You probably think I’m crazy don’t you? But if these cuts, bruises, and scars could talk, then I’m sure they would disagree. I murdered my husband, but the man that I married died long ago.

In two months, my husband and I would’ve celebrated our four-year anniversary. He was a grade school teacher. He loved kids. He always talked about how he never wanted a job that

would keep him from his own children. Being a schoolteacher meant that he would be home by 3:30 on weekdays and have the weekends and summers off. Children loved him. His smile alone would turn their bad days good, their good days great, and their great days unforgettable.

The day I told him that I was ready to start a family was the day I made him the happiest man in the world. Three years ago, I got pregnant with what would have been our first child. Six weeks later, I had a miscarriage. We were devastated. The doctors said that I wouldn’t be able to carry children. My husband became furious. He didn’t speak to me for weeks after blaming me for killing his child. When I’d enter a room, he’d curse me. When I’d speak to him, he’d threaten me. I became hesitant. I became insecure. I became weak.

My husband didn’t hit me because of the cliché reasons such as not having his dinner ready on time or not answering my phone when he called. No, he hit me whenever he’d think about what our child could have been. He slapped me for the times he couldn’t take our son to baseball practice. He pushed me for our daughter’s dance recitals that he never got to attend. He hit me because he loved them, and I was the only thing keeping them from him. But he failed to see my pain. I cried just as much, but there was nothing I could do.

He changed. I didn’t know that man I stabbed seventeen times. My husband had died with our unborn child. If I ever get caught then they’d just have to call me guilty. No apologies. No regrets. No weakness.

I had almost forgotten where I was. My lips were cracked, my nose frozen, and my skin tight. All I could see was the smoke from my breath. I heard another sound. I turned back to the deer. The wolf was gone. I stood up and looked around. There it was again.

“Police! Put your hands where I can see them!”

I realized that he had probably already seen the blood splatters on my hands, shirt, and face. That was it. Like I said before, I had just gotten my freedom back and I wasn’t going to give it all up that easily. So, I did what any murderer would have done. I turned and I ran. A bullet sliced my shoulder, and I fell to the ground. The last thing I remember was hearing the officer call for an ambulance.