His Baby is Gone

She stared angrily yet blankly through her Father's arms as he hugged her head. To him this 37 year old women was still his baby. A sixth month old needing a hug because she had fallen over and bumped her head. She felt a twinge of comfort in his arms, some inner distant emotional memory, somewhere deep inside there was a faint stirring. But it was just a fleeting stir. Just a fly brushing her skin. A very small and momentary lapse to the love that could save her and the love she had lived by for the 35 years before she became a drug addict.

Now her overwhelming drive, a drive that could not be stemmed, a drive that occupies her every cell, that motivates her every action is the need to satisfy her unsatisfiable drug habit. Her ex-husband looking across the neat wooden dining room table cried as he imagined himself hugging his 7 year old daughter. The hugs that for the time being at least could always comfort her, a hug that eventually quells the sobs, a hug that turns the sobbing into a teary smile.

Not for her Dad though. He has lost his baby.

She ate the wonderful curry that her mother had cooked. A recipe passed down through the generations of a poor but happy family village life in Bangladesh. As she ate she hissed abuse at her mother and father and ex-husband. She was oblivious to her children crying on the lounge room floor.

Her father a poor pensioner, emotionally and physically frail and close to death gave her what money he could. Emotional pressure inside him overflowed as blood oozed from his stomach bag staining is white, old worn t-shirt. She hissed abuse at him for being so stingy. Only enough money for a few hours of drug supply. Her ex-husband also gave her money but he asked for a receipt. She hissed abuse at his coldness. Her mother offered her food to take. She hissed abuse at her for not offering money.

Her head nodded uncontrollably with anger, the finger of her lifted arm pointed and her top lip curled as she hissed abuse at her mother, father and ex-husband for looking at her with judgemental eyes and talking to her in soft, calm condescending voices. "How dare you judge me like I am just a junkie."

She wanted the gold that her mother kept in her safe for her. Gold passed down to her from generations from that same poor village. Priceless sentimental heirlooms that were acquired at huge cost, long ago through years and years of her ancestors hard work. Enough to buy her drugs for a week.

She yelled at her ex-husband. Can you give me 5 fucking minutes alone with my kids!! He said sure and opened a door for the children to go with her alone into the formal lounge. She hissed again. "You see what I have to do!!! Instead of spending quality time with my kids I have to be fucking arguing with you. See what you fucking do!!! You fucking cunt!!!!" Her ex-husband stood at the door trying not to look too calm and condescending but yet also submissive and not say anything that might enrage her. An impossibility.

Her 6 year old boy and 7 year girl attempted to comfort their sobbing and crying mother. An honourable yet impossible task. She cried into their arms. You two are the only reason I live. Without you I would kill myself.