The Guilty Room

She looked at him and smiled. It was the purest of smiles. Instinctive, involuntary, yet so utterly complete that it seemed to warm her very soul. More heart felt even than the one that she had shown her childhood sweetheart when they had met, inevitably after all those years together, at the church altar. That inevitability of their coupling had continued, unabated, these past three years, culminating in the small, warm, round faced baby that now beamed back at her.

For a long moment the two of them stared at each other, both lost in the comfort and joy that the other brought. She felt so lucky. When he had arrived two months prematurely there had been complications, and for the first six weeks she had spent most of her time staring at him through the plastic shell of an intensive care unit. Now, to have such unfettered access felt like a gift. Almost an unnatural privilege.

She teased and burbled word at him until, as if to bring her out of her revelry, the babies eyes closed, his mouth gaped, and he yawned an all-encompassing yawn. At once the mothers delirium evaporated, replaced now with exaggerated empathy.

Time to say goodnight. Baby needed his rest. Besides, there would be plenty of time to continue this. This wonderful process would be repeated tomorrow and the day after that . The thought bought on her grinning again. Nothing could draw them apart now.

Tucking the blankets edge behind the thin mattress, she turned on the mobile perched above the cot. Then she crouched to steal one more kiss. Baby sighed at her touch.

At the doorway she allowed herself one last glance, then walked downstairs to join her husband.

The child stared up at the blocks of colour that rotated above. The bright shapes hypnotised him, and for a while he fought to free himself of his blankets so that he might reach out and touch them. But he soon grew tired. The stultifying warmth of his full belly, and the gentle music above overcame him.

The room became increasingly distant. His heartbeat began to slow.

Whether it was the edge of his bedding that he had worked free, enabling him to move first on to his side, then onto his front; whether it was a synapse that had yet to crackle into life; or whether it was his premature brain that never told his heart to stop slowing; for whatever reason, it never did.  He fell deeper and deeper.  Until eventually, and quite peacefully, he fell no further.

As if to mirror the capitulation the mobile also stopped chiming. The room fell utterly, cruelly still. Only the muffled sounds of a television through the floorboards and carpet could be heard.

Indistinct voices spoke back and forth, a brief pause and then muted canned laughter overtook them. Then two louder, closer voices cut through, their laughter louder and more immediate.

The room above cringed, embarrassed at its secret.

But below, carefree and happy, the couple laughed together.

Editorial

Yes, I know. A bit dark this one. I make no apologies for that, murky waters are my preferred habitat, but I do appreciate that this might affect certain people more than others.

This was actually the first one of these stories that I wrote, after waking up too early one morning. Not sure what kind of night I’d been having, but it can’t have been a good one.

The ending reminds me of my own childhood, of hearing the TV through the floor, and wondering what it was that my parents were watching. Canned laughter doesn’t do much for comedy (aside from helping youngsters to understand when a joke lands) but it’s even worse when you’re hearing it filtered through underlay.

The original title was The Last Laugh, but that’s a bit too harsh and takes all the hope from the story. I like to think that they would laugh again.