The Forgotten Widow #13

A being of their own demise. For their greatest sin was their own creation. 'Bloodlines are much like my threads. They may spin and spool, growing and twisting amongst others, but they are also my means to their end She who is forgotten. When there was family, it was before her. A family, once normal now cursed with their last kin born. A shade appeared upon the child's entrance to the world. Be it her mother, who is still in unfathomable pain from the labor. Could it be a deceased sibling? An ancestor? A curse, now to pay it's due. She who was given no name. Upon recovering her focus from the pain, gaining a steady second wind to finally observe her child. A new babe she was expecting. Remembering the days of her prior children, the sounds of their lungs taking in the world for the first time. It was music only mothers understood, new to old. The joy of new life, the relief of a journey achieved, a living miracle. It was no miracle. There was a scream. What is this thing? She who was abandoned. Before the child, if you could call it that, opened their eyes, it was already alone. The only thing it can remember was darkness followed by it's own cries. But where as it emerged from darkness and into the light, there was no one. Even as a newborn, it already has felt the cold. The cold of abandonment. Darkness was not as bad as this isolated feeling. Hopeless. Sad. Lonely. Hated. She who will remind them. All to memory was their voices, muffled yet still can understand that at one moment, it went from eager triumph, to confusion, and then to discord. Upon the ages, she could identify each person by the slightest nuance. From their voice and it's pitch, to the grog in their cough. When you live even underneath the shadows, every sign of living experience is a moment to never forget. There were 4 voices on that day. She who will sow their fates. 4 voices. 3 females, 1 male. Perhaps her cowardly father, and her cold mother followed by 2 nurses. Perhaps it was a male doctor