Microfiction: The child

Chapter three of the story.



“If we’re going, let’s go now,” he said and took her hand firmly in his.

She cast a last look in the direction of the window, at the silvery light that fell on the parquet, so cool and placid.

From the nursery came the sound of a child wailing. The child was his, not hers. But did that make a difference? She screwed her eyes tight shut, squeezing out tears of pain and rage.

“They won’t hurt him,” he said gently. “Not even they would hurt a child.”

She looked into his eyes and saw that he believed what he had just said no more than she did.

“If we leave him,” he said, the tremor in his voice betraying his emotion, “he has a chance at least. If we drag him with us through the countryside in this cold, he’ll die.” The words echoed her own, hollow and bloodless. But he was right. Baby Edvard was consumptive. He would probably not see his second birthday anyway.

Acquiescing silently, she buried her face in the fur collar of her coat. She still heard the crying.


Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

9 thoughts on “Microfiction: The child”

  1. I don’t like to read any of the stories until I’ve written mine, so I’m just reading this now–after I read your comment on mine about Else Berg’s story seeping in afterward. That is kind of eerie. As far as I know, they didn’t have children, but this could have happened, and probably some version did.
    Heartbreaking story.

    1. So many families were wrenched apart. It’s hard to imagine handing your child over to unknowns because you know what’s in store for them if you keep them by you is too horrible to contemplate.

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