I Will Be a Good Mother

I sigh as I fully submerge myself under the running water. The heat of it has caused the whole room to fog up, and a thin layer of sweat to appear over my body. However this doesn't bother me, the warmth comes as a comfort on these early mornings, and the scalding nature of the water is the only way I can feel clean. I rinse my hair absentmindedly, pushing my fingers through my locks, enjoying the light scratches of my nails against my scalp.

I am filled with images of what ifs. Every morning I confront myself on my past failings and regrets. It has become my favourite part of the day, a private ritual in which I get to live through a hundred different versions of myself. Except they are always smarter, prettier, funnier.

  I am  the type of woman who wears a pink power suit, who lounges in her top floor office with a secretary who knows my exact coffee order.  I am stunning. With my perfectly manicured nails and my natural waves that took two hours to achieve. I say things like “I’ll check my calendar” and ‘cross- examine’. The women in the office look up to me, the men look down at my ass and I am powerful. Through their looks I would become significant. Dominant.  

Or maybe I’m a quiet scholar, top of her field. I lecture in Trinity and may or may not be having an affair with my co-worker. I like him because of his intellect and ability to do math sums in his head. He likes me because of my short skirts and cheap lipstick. We meet in secret after classes, but never outside of the college. It's better this way, he says, if no one sees us together. So our trysts are confined to alleyways and empty mostly empty bathrooms. This idea always excites me and I am blissfully happy. 

More recently I imagine I’m the type of woman who didn't ask for a divorce when I found out he had been messaging her. I could have gotten down on my knees and pleaded that he stay, that he loves me.

 Of course it was my fault honey, I shouldn't  have stopped shaving my legs, I shouldn't have let myself go. Think of the child we never had because you didn't want to! Think of the plans we never made because you were too busy with her!

And he would stay and give me two or three kids and a couple of good family holidays before his ultimate demise in a horrific car accident. I would finally be content. 

But no, instead I'm stuck in my shitty studio apartment where my shower fogs up the entire flat because the house was technically in his name. In this room that I'm confined to, that can never be my home. How can it be when there isn't someone here to watch me and comment on how immaculately well i clean it, or ask what's for dinner? Or come home late and miss dinner because they were working overtime with her? 

Her, her, her. 

Her but never me. You let her have kids but not me. You took her out to dinner but not me. 

You and her. 

Her and you.

 Me and me.  

A deep groan escapes me as I open my eyes, returning to reality. The steam has completely fogged up my glass door, and all I can make out are the blurry outlines of my flat behind it. Below me, bubbles have begun to form from my shampoo. Like tiny cameras they stare at my naked form, reflecting my truest, barest self back to me. The slope of breasts, the paleness of my skin, on display for my own personal disciples. 

I continue to stare at myself. Devoid of emotion and opinion. It doesn't matter anyway. All that matters is how he sees me. The longer I stare the more distorted my body becomes. Or the closer it becomes to reality. This is my favourite part of the morning. I begin to write with my finger on the door a list of things I must get done:

1. Buy shaping underwear
2. Pop the large spot that has appeared on my chin
3. Apply a thick layer of natural looking makeup
4. Do something about the fat in my arms

I giggle to myself. Today will be a productive day. 
My examination is brought to an end by the small clots of red beginning to appear between these tiny tv screens at my feet. It happens at the same time every day, and yet it still manages to excite me. I can feel the cool rush of the blood as it flows down my neck, my back, my legs, and finds a home under my feet. The liquid begins to wash away the suds, interrupting my own voyeurism. I slowly work my hands through my hair towards the hole just above the nape of my neck. 

The first time I showed it to him he screamed, calling me all sorts of rude names and such. I don't know why he was so scared of it. After all, he was the one who tore me open and splayed me out. He had run his fingers along the back of my eyes and marvelled at my obedience. Perhaps the timing wasn't right, after all he had just told me he was leaving me for her. 

When my fingers meet the edge of the cavity I shiver. I feel you start to slowly shift and poke your head out of my skull. I coo and pamper you with encouraging words as you slowly slither down my neck and begin to whisper into my ear. I caught a glimpse of you in the reflection of the fogged glass door, and I couldn't have been prouder by what I saw. It had only been a couple of weeks, and yet you were growing at a rapid pace. I suppose all babies do at this age. 

After a couple of minutes you began your slow, slithering ascent once again. You disappeared back into the hole in my neck, leaving a red sticky trail on my skin and hair in your wake. This is why we double shampoo, I thought, as I began to scrub your residue off me.

 I was almost jumping up and down with pride. Although your sentences were mostly garbled and nonsensical, I would listen intently all the same. I could already hear the improvements! Those children's books I had been reading every night are working wonders. Today I could make out the distinct vowel sounds of the letter ‘a’ and a double ‘o’. 

I stepped out of the shower and quickly wrapped a towel around myself. I would have to get on top of my list quickly. I wanted everything to be perfect for you. I needed to be perfect for you. Whether you were a friend, lover or child I could not be sure yet. The language barrier didn't allow me to ask questions. But I knew you would love me. You had to, you came from me. Incubated in my thoughts, you drank of my blood. 

Your speech, although difficult to grasp, had my distinctive pattern and drawl, which I disguised poorly behind a faux american accent. And amidst all the half words and noises that you had slowly enunciated today, one word stood out. It had caused the blood in my veins to feel warm and fuzzy. My heart raced with excitement.
 Fully formed and firmly spoken.

Soon