Female,
writer, forties
I'm walking through the narrow back-streets of a city, late
at night; it's cold, badly lit, I stumble into dustbins,
etc. I'm trying to get away from someone but I don't know
who it is. There's a door into the back of what I assume is
a small shop and I open it and go in. I'm in a narrow
corridor, with high ceilings - almost like a tunnel. The
walls are dark brown with peeling paint. I feel very
squashed and claustraphobic. Then there's a narrow
staircase and I start to climb. The steps are steep and my
legs ache. At the top of the staircase there's another door
and I open it. I'm standing in an enormous, cavernous room
- like a palatial ballroom, with candelabras hanging from
the ceilings. The walls are painted dark red. The floor is
polished and there is a Grand piano in the far corner. I
shout out and my words echo back to me. The floor to
ceiling windows have black velvet drapes over them. I pull
one aside and look out, over green fields, a river, a
railway line. I curl up by the window and suddenly realise
I'm heavily pregnant and the baby is moving down, ready to
be born. There's no pain at all and I know exactly what to
do. I squat down and lift my dress - it seems I'm not
wearing anything underneath! - and the baby's head whooshes
out in a gush of fluid, and hangs there for a moment; then
the shoulders slide down and out, then the body, as easily
and quickly as a fish. It's a boy, and I pick him up and
lick him clean and bite through the cord. Then, suddenly
it's night-time outside and the room is very dark and I
can't see my baby's face in the huge room. He latches onto
my breast and the door of the huge room opens and there are
footsteps but I can't see who's there. I know I have to
keep quiet and keep the baby quiet. Then I must have woken
up, because I can't remember any more.