child's play

Author: Kathryn E. Fillmore
Written: 1/17/08
Introduction:
Thoughts of rights and ownership plague my mind like staccatos in E minor.

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It was a dark and stormy night. A hooded figure crept though the muddy streets of London. It glanced side-to-side before slipping across the street and into a dark side street. The figure approached a side door and tried the knob. It was locked.

The person drew a small tool from the inside of their cloak and fiddled with the lock. After a few agonizing minutes, the lock was open. The figure entered the building with great caution, and closed the door quietly behind. It then removed it's hood, but the shadows in the townhouse made it difficult to discern the face. But, it was definitely a woman.

She removed her muddy boots and walked on padded feet in her stockings through the home. She passed the dining room where the fine china was displayed in the cheery-wood cabinets. She passed the room of an elderly woman where antique jewelry sat out on the bureau.

At the top of the stairs, a door was barely open and that sort of cold grey light that a night storm gives off shone through. The intruder crept up the stairs and pushed the door open just enough to slip inside. A wet nurse sat facing the window on the opposite wall, rocking a young child. As the intruder stepped closer, the wooden floor-boards creaked under her feet. The wet nurse turned around just in time to see the flash of a dagger in the moonlight and then, nothing. Minutes later, a cloaked figure was seen hurrying down the street, a child in her arms.

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The babe becomes a child, the child her mother never knew.

One woman enters motherhood as another goes without.

What's done is done; what's earned is yours. But would you bargain with a human life?

This account plays like a music box in my mind, tinkling out it's morbid tune over and over. The dark cobwebs on my mind are shaken off as I explore new angles and develop an opinion.

And life goes on, does it not?