I labour through the night, sweat beading my upper lip, belly bulging, sticky thighs. At first the contractions ripple through my body in gentle waves. They ebb and flow, and I close my eyes, let myself drift. Across oceans I have never seen, through cool valleys I can only imagine. Later, the contractions intensify and begin to surge through me as if they are trying to smash me apart. My cries splatter like blood on the walls and ceiling of the birthing pod. But I am alone here.

 

The pod is bare, except for a metal bench, and it's so tiny it feels like the walls are leaning in. My fingers claw at the tiled floor, searching for the earth's pulse. I can't remember what damp soil feels like, or the touch of newly mown grass, but something in me yearns for them. We live in high-rise buildings so tall we rarely go down to ground level. Elders whisper stories about the fragrance of freshly cut flowers or the sensation of walking barefoot on the beach, and we can only imagine. 

 

A drone slowly circles my body, reporting in a clipped voice on my blood pressure, the baby's heart rate, my cervical dilation. The steady stream of data gradually blurs into background noise and I turn in on myself. In the dusky haze I see generations of women who have birthed before me. I feel their warm hands on my body, hear hushed voices saying, ‘Breathe. Just breathe.' They form a circle around me and I know I'm ready.

 

This is my first pregnancy. After a health assessment, I was summoned to the breeding clinic and approved for impregnation. I know nothing about the father. It does not matter to me, and that choice is not mine to make. My role is only to nurture my unborn child. 

 

As I start to push, I cry out again. I want to stop, turn back, but this thing inside is bearing down and splitting me in two. The drone beeps and hovers, commanding me to push, push. And I do as it says, but it feels like the baby is stuck, wedged deep inside me. I wonder if it will remain in its watery cocoon and I will be left to rot here with the drone still issuing orders while I lie dead on the cold slab. 

 

Time stops. And then I feel the baby move. I suck in air and exhale and suddenly it is half out of me, sliding like an eel until it is lying on the bench, blue and wet, but crying loudly. A girl. 

 

I reach towards her, but before I can touch her, a panel opens in the wall and robotic arms reach in. They slice the umbilical cord and lift her up, still slippery and wailing, and she is propelled out of the pod. The movement is swift and the panel closes as quickly as it opened. 

I deliver the placenta and then lie exhausted, my body stained red and slick with amniotic fluid. Water jets shoot down at me, pummelling my softness, washing away any trace of her. 

 

The leaders forbid minimal emotional attachment. They insist that any thoughts of the offspring be erased. But I will always wonder. I hope someone tells her stories of the rustling leaves and the scent of morning rain and the mighty women who came before her. That someone is beside her saying, ‘Breathe, child. Just breathe.'

 

 

'Just Breathe', published in 'the little journal', Writing WA, Night Parrot Press and ECU, 2024.

 

 

Alison Davis is an Australian short story and flash fiction writer. Her stories have appeared in various publications including Night Parrot Press anthologies, the Bath Flash Fiction Award Anthology, the Newcastle Short Story Award Anthology and Award Winning Australian Writing. She's a previous winner of the Stuart and Hadow Short Story Prize, has been a runner up in the Aniko Press Flash Fiction Competition and is a current participant in Writing WA's Emerging Writers Program, for which she is working on her debut collection of short fiction. www.alisondaviswriter.com