Birth

When she told us the story we just stared. We thought we didn’t hear her correctly. So we asked her to tell it again. She did, exactly the same. We talked it over after she left and insisted that we had misunderstood. It wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t. So it was that when I saw her again, I told her to write it. She gave me a small smile, the smile she was famous for, and asked for paper and pen. As she wrote, I paced. After she was finished, hours into the night, she handed me these pages. They were exactly as she had said earlier, her story in her own words. I asked if I could show others what she’d written and she said yes. So, here it is, in her own words.



I’m a virgin, never doubt that. The closest I’ve ever come to making out with a boy was a kiss between two semi-trucks at a forlorn gas stop on highway 89. I guess I was living a little dangerously then, trying to be a bad girl…and failing.

I was born and raised in a small village in Europe, living with daily chores, no father and a constantly missing mother. I often wondered why she was never around, why I was left to take care of my younger sisters and brother, but I just sort of fell into the role.

When my mother was gone for good I was deciding on the importance of high school. I worked down at the docks, gutting fish. Gross as it sounds it paid rather well. The catch came in during the early hours of the morning so I had plenty of time to wash up for school. Unfortunately, this left the children unsupervised for six hours at least. The second oldest, my sister Flara, took on some of the responsibility of getting them all ready for school. She was only twelve.

Flara helped when she could, Dona ran rampant, a daring little eight-year-old who believed the world revolved around her, and Byron sat back and cried mostly, he was only five. I worked, cooked, cleaned and prayed for redemption and forgiveness. I didn’t care if my mother returned or not.

You see, she wasn’t dead, she was just gone. To America, I believe. Such a horrid country. I know I live here now, in America, but that was unavoidable. I had to escape the horrors lingering in Europe and the only way was America.

But back to the story. Flara ruled the roost when I was away and I figured high school was not vital in my growth. If I could find another day job, we’d have more money. Much more money. I stumbled to school late in the morning and was usually gone before classes were over due to some call from Dona’s teacher.

Meeting with teachers was all I did for many years. The teachers enjoyed insulting my siblings and the way they were raised. I listened and nodded, as I’d seen other parents do, but I never truly agreed.

The fogs were thick and heavy in the early hours of morning and so I could never truly see where it was I was going. I had a natural sense of direction and always ended up at the docks, waiting with the other women and men to gut fish.

The morning the fog did not come is the morning when everything changed. I walked down the worn cobblestone streets, slowly since the fog would not hinder. He emerged from a closed shop, walking stiffly across the small street to stop directly in my path.

I didn’t dare study him, didn’t dare make eye contact or acknowledge him in any way. So it was that he had to speak to me, had to remain in my path and force me to speak with him.

“Yes, Elena, you are special.” He said, his voice deep and gravelly, it sent chills up my spine.

I looked up at him, surprised that he knew my name when I had never seen him before. He was tall and dark haired with piercing green eyes and full lips. His jaw was square and firm with a dark stubble dancing across his lower face. I moved to step aside and past him but he put out his hand to stop me.

“Your children are special as well.” He said and I thought of fleeing. “They are confused, yes, being raised by one so young, but they are yours.”

“They are my sisters and brother, sir, not my children.” I replied calmly.

“Is their mother here, then, raising them as she should?” He asked and I shook my head. “Then you are their mother…or the closest thing they have to a mother. Do you deny this?” I shook my head once more and his lips curved back and up into a smile. “Come with me. I shall buy you something warm to chase away the mornings chill.”

Up until those words left his mouth, the morning was not the least bit cold. Suddenly, despite the knowledge of the weather I possessed, I shivered. And before I knew it, we were in a small cottage drinking spiced rum and cider.

“Elena, where is your mother?” He asked me after sitting in silence for many long minutes.

I shrugged. “America, I suppose.” I said.

“America. Horrid country. I visited there once, long ago.” He said and I lowered my glass and stared. He appeared to be no older than twenty-five and yet he spoke as though he was eighty, old and wise. “Do you want to go to America?” He asked suddenly.

The air seemed to get heavy and I felt pressured to say yes, even though I hated the country. “No.” I said, though it was a struggle. I picked up the spiced rum and swallowed the remainder in one gulp.

“Pity. I would take you to America. To find your mother.” He said.

“Who are you?” I asked finally.

“A friend. A very special friend.” He said. It was then that I realized the late hour. I stood quickly, my head swimming with confusion and rum. “What is the matter, Elena?” He asked in a tone that told me he knew.

“I am late for work.” I said as I moved toward the door.

“You are late for school as well.” He said and I glanced at the clock above the pitiful sink and saw that it was past noon.

“What have I been doing?” I asked but he didn’t answer. The room tilted madly to the right, then pitched to the left. I grasped at a nearby chair but missed it by inches. I fell to the dirty wood floor.

“You have been giving me what I require, Elena. Do you feel refreshed?” His tone was cold and mocking and I felt the vomit rise and exit my mouth in a mad rush of fluid. He laughed as the room spun and grew dim. I choked on the dryness of my mouth as the dim grew dimmer and eventually everything went black. But I could still hear his laughter.

I woke in my mother’s bed at home. I tossed off the ugly brown coverlet and stood quickly. I looked for the man but he was nowhere in the small cottage I lived in and hated. My mouth tasted of spoiled rum and I hurried into the privy as my stomach turned and I heaved. I threw up the remaining liquid and stared at it, brown and clotted, rotten rum.

My sister was worried, as worried as a twelve-year-old can be. She fretted slightly and told me that some handsome young man had brought me home sick from the docks. She stated over and over that I should never have worked at a place that smelled of fish daily. I just stared at the peeling wallpaper and listened to the dripping faucet.

I was sick for over a week, throwing up rum when there shouldn’t have been any left to throw up. Finally, dehydrated and weak, the poisoning of my system ended. I returned to the docks but they stated that I was fired. I laughed in their faces and left. I felt helpless and lost as I walked down the familiar cobblestone street toward my home.

He stopped me with and easy tug on my arm. I wanted to flee, to run quickly away from him, my sisters and brother, the small village I called home. I wanted to flee to America, the horrid country, to find my mother and feed her the poisoned rum.

He led me back to the same cottage and placed a cup of rum before me expectantly. Despite the past few days, despite the agony and the bile, I swallowed it and threw the cup angrily against the wall.

“Why did you do that, Elena?” He asked mildly.

“Because I hate you and I’m confused.” I said as I stood to leave but found that I couldn’t. “What do you want?”

“I want to take you to America.” He said. I just stared. He was dense. “Elena?”

“I don’t want to go to America.” I said. “I don’t want to find my mother.”

“Neither do I.” He said and he smiled the same smile from days before, only now I realized the coldness in it.

“I have to take care of my…” I trailed of. “My…sisters and brothers.”

“Your children?” He came to my side and laid his hand upon my shoulder. “They are not your children. You said so yourself. They will be fine without you. Better off without you. Let me take you to America.”

“No.” I said and my stomach twisted. I fell to my knees. “I don’t want to throw up.” I said.

“Then say yes. Say yes.” He whispered, over and over, till I curled up into a tiny ball to ease the discomfort in my stomach and prevent the bile from rising.

“Yes.” I croaked as blackness took me.

A boat carried us across the sea, swiftly, though I was unaware. He fed me rum daily, drugged rum, so I lay in our cabin, upon our bunk sleeping. Now you may ask me how I am sure he did not take advantage of me. I wasn’t, at the time, but later it will all make sense. Never doubt that I am a virgin.

America smelled. It still does, to me anyway. Many immigrants love America because it represents freedom, redemption. I hate America because it represents my ‘friend’. But I hate England because it represents sickness. I hated everything.

As months passed in America, I grew large. I never ate, never drank, except the rum he fed me. I grew large slowly and he was pleased. Happy and pleased.

“My Elena, the day is near. You shall birth my son, my child. He shall end this torment of America, of England. Be reborn through my son, Elena.” He said this to me daily for a month. I ignored him mostly, drinking the rum and sleeping.

One night I woke wet and in pain. My breathing was labored and I felt intense shots of pain in my abdomen every few minutes. He watched me, standing at the foot of the bed, his eyes upon my naked body. I had gone to bed in my nightclothes yet woke cold, wet, in pain and naked.

“Yes, Elena, my son is coming.” He spoke softly and I believed everything was natural. He had raped me, I thought, and placed his son inside me. Now I was no longer a virgin, I no longer had the gift of purity for my husband on our wedding night. “Breathe, Elena, breathe.” He said.

The torment seemed unbearable but I managed through. Without another soul in the room but the stranger and I, Derrick was born. Derrick, my son, his son, the product of rape. I wept then and he took his son away. He returned with soup and water.

“Now, Elena, it is very important that you listen to me. Are you listening to me?” All I could do was nod. “You are weak from fulfilling your purpose to me. You must drink this broth slowly, do not rush despite your hunger. When you feel strong enough, you must go to a hospital. There is one a block away. Will you do this?” He asked and I nodded again. “Derrick and I are leaving now, Elena, and this will all seem as a bad dream. Do not return to England, your family is dead. I killed them before we left. Your mother is dead as well, or should be. If I find her, I promise I will kill her. There is nothing for you in England. You understand? Nothing.” I nodded again though I didn’t believe him. “If you return you will only find pain and heartache. Do not return to England. Thank you for Derrick, Elena. Thank you for my son.”

I drank the broth slowly only because I did not have the strength to do otherwise. I did not go to the hospital like he told me to because I couldn’t move. I craved the spiced rum he took with him, craved his protection and presence. I was found a week later, nearly dead, by a neighbor who called an ambulance. I spent a month in the hospital praying for death.

After I was released from the hospital I had to meet with a psychiatrist for a month. Every Tuesday and Friday I went to visit an elderly man who insisted I repeat the story of Derrick and his father. I sat and stared at the photos of the man and his children and felt sad.

“Why can’t I see Derrick? Why did he take him away?” I asked.

“You were dehydrated and ill, you had no food in your system. You could not have carried a child to term. Your womb does not show any signs of life having been there and the bed you claim to have birthed your son upon shows no signs of birthing.” The man said.

“He changed the sheets and mattress then.” I argued.

“Even if he had, your body is intact. No signs of child bearing or loss of virginity.” He replied.

“I’m a virgin?” I asked. “How is that possible?”

He steepled his hands before him and stared at me a moment. With an even tone he finally spoke, his words burning like a brand into my mind. “Elena, you are a virgin, the doctors examined you completely. You have not carried a child nor birthed a child yet in your young life. If you continue to insist that Derrick exists, that a man fed you spiced rum for over nine months and yet you still live, I will have no choice but to declare you ill. They will lock you up, Elena, and you will remain there.”

I studied him for a long time then nodded. The rest of our sessions were spent with me denying the truth and insisting that I was in love with a man I couldn’t have so I lied. I made up a story. I realized it now. And I was left alone.

I returned to the small fishing village a few years ago. He told the truth. My family was dead, buried in the churchyard with small identical tombstones, dating back to the day and year I said yes to the stranger.

A woman was murdered in New York, he sent me the clipping. He didn’t sign his name but I knew it was him. He killed my mother. I was all alone.

Now this story may seem to be just that…a story. But it is so much more. It is my life, my strange life lived in England and America. It is my story, and it is true. I am a virgin. Never doubt that.