Translucent katabasis by Emma Burnett

The house is moribund, and the door closing behind me is shocking against the silent space. I hover in the hallway. You break away, move directly up the carpeted stairs. I can almost hear the gate at the top moan, just about hear your footsteps stop in her room. I hesitate, then follow.

You sit in the chair that we bought for feeding, for nights where one of us would have to sleep in her room. It’s too big for the small room, and it squeaks when someone sits down. It is an oversized hug. You are a ghostly outline in the darkened room, a mirage that becomes clearer. You look small in the chair, insubstantial arms softly wrapped around shimmering air.

 When you rock back and forth, I can see her nestled there, up against your soft body. When you free a breast, I’m sure I can hear a sigh. You leak, and small drops of milk drip quietly onto the tee-shirt covering your soft stomach. As if she can smell the milk, she strains her tiny, ethereal body towards you, and you shift her slightly, rearrange her in your arms. You are careful of her head, of her wild little fists.

I wonder what she weighs, barely there in your diaphanous arms.

I stand in the doorway, silently watching, separate. I haven’t been invited in.

You hum and it breaks the silence. It starts out as a lullaby, but it morphs, loses its melody, transforms into a nothingness song. The walls reverberate to the pitch, a continuous echo of a song and a cry. It is a small room, smaller than we’d have liked, but we never had much more than love to give. We called it a nest, and made it cosy. Perfect for someone so small.

The song is high and strained, and it drills into my heart. I see a small heart beating through the naked skin of her translucent outline. It is a fluttering thing, and it seems to be buzzing to your hum. I see your heart, pumping a ghostly rhythm. I see your breast, pumping opaline milk. You rock and hum, and the leathery chair makes small whimpery creaks, like the ones pushing their way out of my chest through my throat.

A mouth that can’t be there attaches to your body. I wish I could substantiate her the way you do.

I wonder if you can feel her pull as she drinks.

I lean against the door jamb, and know that the salty tears flowing down my face would be a deadly food.

As she feeds, the cavity of my body feels empty. I want to be curled against your body, too. I want you both to curl into me. I turn away.

I trip on the plush carpeting, stagger down the stairs. In the kitchen, I falter, stare around. A space that should be full of life is a shell, empty except for packets of uneaten noodles, dried into bowls like illustrations of brains. Mugs litter the counter, scummy graveyards for fruit flies. I put on the kettle and search for anything clean to put tea in. Maybe the milk will still be usable. Maybe it will mask the flavour, once I’ve emptied the capsules into the hot water.

I leave the empty gelatine shells strewn across the countertop.

In the small nest, in the oversized chair, you are still rocking and humming, a small smile on your face. She suckles with an ease no new mother experiences, but you do. You do. The walls, covered in soft furnishings, thrum as though covered in guitars, in double basses, in drums. Your song is deep and full, not only your voice, but the voice of many. My head buzzes, reverberates with the pressure of it. I wish I could add to the sound, but my throat is nothing but lumps, a space of suppressed sobs.

The surface of the tea ripples. So does her skin, reflecting the nightlight, soft blue next to the cot. She is naked and perfect, there in your arms. She always was, even when we couldn’t hold her. Even when they took her away.

You were always perfect, even when they took you.

I wish you needed me.

I wish I could hold you.

I stand in the doorway and watch you both, clutching the burning hot mug. 

I take a sip and burn my tongue. The flavour is tea and nearly spoilt milk, nothing more. I sip again.

She releases you, and turns her head. Star-bright eyes in a face barely there, and she stares at me. Her eyes are wide and beautiful, as they were so briefly. Your eyes.

You look up from gazing down at her perfect head. Your eyes and hers glow softly, both of you focus on me, yours shining and wet, hers wide and only just there. Both of you, shimmering in the dim light of the nightlight, in the small nest of a room. Tears slide down your cheeks, splash onto your breast, splash onto her faintly outlined belly.

The music continues, and my heart vibrates along to your hum. A sob works its way up through my chest, and my throat constricts so I struggle to swallow the sip of cooling tea. It begins to taste of metal, of the powder mixed in and congealing, and it dribbles out over my lips. Small rivulets land on my shirt. 

You hold out a hand.

I stand there, crumpled against the doorway, unsure if it’s me you are reaching for, or the ruinous tea.