Ander - Part 2: Subchapter 31
31
All alone with her child, Sarah was finally able to whisper the things she had wanted to say when her father first returned him to her shaking arms.
"Don't worry, baby, I'm here..." she crooned, lovingly kissing him on the forehead. His cries were already dying down, his movements slowing. "I promise I won't let anything bad happen to you. You're safe with me..." Those words left the bitter taste of lies on her tongue. How could she promise her child she would keep him safe when her own father was to barge in here and kill him less than five minutes from now?
"Oh, baby... I'm so sorry..." She wished she had taken the time to think up a proper name for him, but that's just it. Time. We always think we have so much, until it runs out. She thought she would have time with her son. She thought life would be difficult at first, but that her father would come to accept him. With time...
There's no time left. If she wanted to give her son a name, she would have to do it right now.
She looked down at her baby, at his beautiful brown eyes, at the spiky tuft of fur on his head that still refused to lie down, trying to find inspiration for the perfect name.
Her eyes suddenly stopped on his neck, jerked to a halt by what she saw there.
He was bleeding. Her baby boy was bleeding! He...
No. Sarah forced herself to calm down by taking a deep breath. She couldn't take in much air before the imaginary daggers started stabbing her midsection again, but it worked well enough for her to tell the difference between reality and what her tired, grief-stricken mind was showing her.
Her baby wasn't bleeding. That was her own blood, carried over to her son's neck by her father's hand.
She could tell because it made a perfect crimson handprint across his throat.
Sarah normally didn't put much stock in bad omens, but the sight of that handprint, as if her father had put a mark on him, was more than she could bear.
She licked the palm of her hand and started to rub the vile print off his neck. The poor babe didn't like being touched there, and squirmed beneath her touch. He started to cry again, and Sarah didn't blame him in the least.
"Ssh... ssh... I'm sorry, baby. I know you must be sore there." She didn't want to hurt her child, no matter what, but she couldn't stand to see her father's hand on his neck like that.
Perhaps it was instinct hearkened from the primal mothers of days long past, or perhaps it was as natural as the birth itself. Either way, Sarah put no conscious thought into her actions. It simply felt like the right thing to do.
She lowered her head and started to lick her baby clean, his sweet scent completely overpowering the metallic taste of her blood.
He didn't seem to mind this at all, and his struggles stopped. He even craned his neck back a little as her tongue flicked over his chin, allowing her to get every last speck.
"There, all clean. Isn't that better?" Her cub made the cutest little sound (Eh!) as if in answer, his eyes still darting all about the room, never staying still for longer than a second at a time, except when looking at her face.
This is my son, she thought, looking into his eyes. The candlelight reflected off them in much the same way as it did with her father's, but there was no anger or hatred or wickedness to be found here.
Only warmth and innocence.
And love.
Sarah reached out and lightly touched her baby's nose. She could feel his breath pass over her finger, and even this, an everyday action she has been doing herself her entire life with barely any notice, now seemed like the highest miracle.
Her baby reached up and closed his tiny fingers over her own, and Sarah was once again struck by the strength of his small hands as they squeezed her tight.
"Not even an hour old, and you've escaped death so many times," she said. "You're a survivor. You're strong. And above all else, you are my child."
As her baby squeezed down on her finger, Sarah thought about the words she had just spoken. He needed a good, strong name to go with everything he has shown her up till now, for even though he's just a baby, he already has an inner strength shining through plain as day, even in this darkest of nights. He needed a name that would mirror that inner strength to the outside world, something that bore the meaning of everything she saw in him this very moment.
Perhaps... a name that literally meant 'strong'?
And then it came to her. A name that would reflect his strength, not just in body, but in Soul.
She hugged her baby close and kissed him gently, his fur so soft against her lips, and whispered his name for the very first time.
"Andrew..."
A loud banging at the door. "Sarah! What are you doing in there!? Your five minutes are almost up and I can still hear that godsdamned little whelp! If you don't hurry up I'm coming in!"
"Yes, Father!" Sarah replied, trying to tally up the minutes in her head while her heart hammered in her chest.
How long has it really been? She could hear her parents outside, whispering angrily at each other. Maybe five minutes have already come and gone, and Mother was advocating for more?
She didn't know.
Now she could hear Father pacing up and down the hallway, his footfalls growing louder with his impatience. It was like listening to a clock counting down the seconds her son had left to live. Her precious little Andrew...
"Andrew," she whispered, looking down at her baby. "I made you a promise, and I swear on my Living Soul I will keep it, no matter what. I don't know if I can do it by myself, but I do know that I will die before I let that monster touch you for a second time!"
Biting down on her lip to keep from screaming, Sarah slowly started to get up.
I debated long and hard with myself whether I should leave in that part where Sarah licks her baby clean. I didn't know whether it would come off as sweet or disgusting, but in the end I decided to keep it in, because it just belongs, if you understand what I mean.
Stephen King once said that a story isn't a created thing. It's a found thing, like a fossil in the ground. It's a pre-existing thing, and I believe that completely. This scene is living proof of that.
I never intended to give Ander a Fox name, but Sarah insisted. She even came up with the name "Andrew" without any prompting on my end. When I looked up the meaning of the name (because, in case you haven't noticed by now, some of the names in this story bear a lot of weight), this is what I found:
(Taken from SheKnows.com)
In Biblical the meaning of the name Andrew is: A strong man.
People with this name have a deep inner desire for a stable, loving family or community, and a need to work with others and to be appreciated. They tend to be idealistic, highly imaginative, intuitive, and spiritual. They seek after spiritual truth and often find it. They tend to be visionary and may inspire others, despite the fact that they are often regarded as hopeless dreamers.
Sound familiar? This is the kind of stuff that makes me believe that I'm not the one writing this story, but that the story is writing itself through me.
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