written by David Anglin

Daily Creative Writing Practice - She Placed Him Down [Short Story]

Daily Creative Writing Practice - She Placed Him Down [Short Story]

My practice of bringing depth to simple sentences...


She Placed Him Down



She took in a deep mournful breath as she looked up to the dark purple-blue clouds as they slowly rolled by. Scattered trees with long branches cast long shadows across the silence of the car park. As the moon played its game of hide and seek, darting between clusters of clouds.
The main entrance of the hospital was quiet. Silenced similar to that of the long deceased. She blended perfectly with the surroundings. A lone dark figure. Black hoodie up high. Turbulent emotions hidden in darkness.

She knew if her mother was ever to realise that she'd left the house, at this time of night. The consequences would be grave. But she cared not. She'd stopped caring a long time ago. Her past teaching the importance of suppressing feelings for survival.Of acting as if just a spectator, looking through the window of someone else's damned world. Pain she learned was temporary. Memories with enough effort could be blocked, or at least placed within the darkest corners of memory banks. A human version of the dark web. Not to be traversed by the faint of heart.

But as she stood there, she couldn't help feeling emotional, tears close to breaking the surface. Streaming down the hidden dimples of her pre-teen face. She'd said to herself earlier that when she got here. She'd come. Dump and go. No ifs no buts. But here she was. half an hour later. Her kickers transfixed to the spot. Her mind a rushing turmoil. Conflicted between right and wrong. Especially when the concepts of right and wrong had been so warped in her world. Twisted to make moral the touching of an adult upon that of a youngster. Twisted to silence the plight of a daughter at that of an uncle.
Human shrieks of foxes at war broke the silence of the night. The cries growing ever more intensified as their running and biting grew ever closer. The innate feelings of protection surfacing through the suppression of emotions.
She heard a sniff followed by a little cough. Tears welled and thaw set to a long chilled heart.
The cause of her bodies changes, the cause of her sickness all those months ago. The reason people looked at her with disapproving looks everytime she stepped from her door. Normally a gift from God but now her uncles curse. A curse held within the chubby face of a little baby boy.
A baby she had full intentions of abandoning to the night staff of London's Whipps CrossHospital. Though now she weren't so sure. The seeds of doubt had set in, cementing themselves in stubbornness. His little cough and the threat of baby snatching foxes created further conflict.
She was a mother. But she'd birthed something through unholy acts. A Frankenstein. Now called Jerry. Made from the ills of man and given birth through the corrupted canal of her womb. An abomination. But he was still her abomination. Her Frankenstein, and the threats of nighttime predators was all too real. She knew as she'd been a victim of one. So was it right for her to abandon him, just as how she'd been abandoned to the whims of a man with no morals.
Her head hurt from overthinking. Her body felt weak as if struggling for air. As if she'd faint, or worse her heart would stop, giving up her ghost to a new world. A pain free world. Cuts on her wrists as a testament for each time she'd tried to reach for this new world. Though now. Being a mother. She wasn't so sure if abandoning her son to the world of man was the best thing to do. For the first time since arriving she stopped looking up and looked down. Looking into the face of her handsome little boy who stared up at her with curiosity. But broke into a smile then a little chuckle as he saw his mother now watching him. She smiled back. Reaching down, picking him up from his makeshift basket. The covering of a thick blanket covering her arms in folds. She took long steps towards the direction of home. Taking even longer first steps towards the roads of recovery...


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Words and Art. Art and words. My stories will make you laugh, will make you cry. Provoke anger, cause distress. But most importantly my tales will get you thinking in hopes of bringing around real change...?

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