Living With Evil by Cynthia Owen (ap literature book list txt) 📗

We argued on and on, about the bag and the baby and Mammy leaving me on my own. I was eleven-years-old. I didn’t want to be left in a strange lane way on my own. It scared me. I didn’t want to leave my baby in the dimly-lit lane way on her own either. It didn’t seem fair at all. I felt so very sorry for her, lying in the dark inside the bag, all alone without a mammy.

The arguments went on, and the walking went on. My whole body ached. I longed for my bed, and when I finally got there I collapsed, my mind and body drained and battered.

It was evening time again when I woke up, because I could smell the dinner cooking.

I was tied to the single bed, with nylon stockings holding my wrists to the bedposts.

I started screaming, and Mammy appeared at the doorway.

She told me my baby had been found, because she had heard it on the news.

‘Shut up and come downstairs for your dinner,’ she said in the next breath. Untying my hands, she added, ‘Act as if nothing has happened.’

I did as I was told. I didn’t know what else I could do, and I didn’t have a drop of energy left in my body for a fight.

The evening passed in a blurry haze. I heard the little ones in the house cry and chatter as normal, and I saw Mammy sit in the rocking chair and drink as usual, while Daddy was in the pub.

I tried to act normal too, and I think I did a good job, because nobody asked me anything about what happened the day before.

The next morning, I got the younger ones dressed and fed and myself ready for school. Mammy came down and handed me a packet of thick sanitary towels and a sanitary belt. I’d never seen a belt like it before, and Mammy explained how to use it, to keep the towel in place in my knickers.

My tummy felt all wobbly and sore, and when I looked in the mirror I was shocked. I looked like I hadn’t slept for a month, and my clothes were hanging off me.

At school I acted as normal as possible though, and nobody asked what was wrong with me or why I’d missed the previous day. It was a typical, unremarkable school day. We did sums and read books, and I was very surprised by that.

Inside, I felt very different, like I had never felt before. I was burning up with fury and fear, and I had lots of dark thoughts smouldering in my brain.

I didn’t trust Mammy at all any more, and I wasn’t going to do as she told me. I hated her. I hated what she did to my baby. I hated how my baby looked in that bag, all wounded and covered in blood.

It wasn’t right, and one day I would tell people what Mammy did to my baby. I would get Mammy for what she did.

When I was bigger and stronger I would get all the people who did bad things to me and my baby. I made a promise to both of us.

After I walked home from school that night there was a programme on television called Garda Patrol. It was relating the story of how the baby was found. I sat transfixed, hanging on every word but knowing I could say nothing.

It showed the laundry bag, and told how two eleven-year-old boys had found the baby on the way home from fishing. The presenter said that the mother of the child could be in need of urgent medical treatment, and this confused me.

If I urgently needed medical treatment, then why had I gone to school that day, and why was I now sitting watching the television?

I didn’t understand what he was saying. He urged the mother of the baby to come forward. This made me angry.

I felt as if it was obvious who I was, and I wondered why I had to come forward. I was really tired, so why didn’t they come and get me? Surely they knew who I was?

Mammy kept me off school for ages after that. I was locked up in our house for weeks, until well after the Easter holidays.

The days all merged into one. Mammy tried to act the same as ever, but she seemed agitated and nervous, and she shouted and watched the news all the time. Nobody mentioned the baby. Nobody came knocking on our door.

Daddy carried on like nothing had happened, still forcing me to ‘get here now’ in bed at night, even when I was still sore and bleeding.

It was as if everybody had forgotten about the baby, and what happened that night.

One day, I heard Mammy whispering with Granny. ‘Are you talking about my baby?’ I asked.

Mammy looked me straight in the eye. ‘What baby?’ she asked.

‘You know what baby, Mammy. My baby. The baby we left in the laundry bag,’ I said.

I started crying. It hurt me just to say the words.

‘What baby?’ Mammy asked me. ‘There never was a baby. You’re crazy, Cynthia, you’re mad! Stop crying! Shut up!’ Granny didn’t argue or say anything to contradict Mammy.

It was the same every time I mentioned the baby. I was sure I wasn’t mad, because the feeling in my heart never changed. I felt like I’d lost something, like a part of me was missing. I knew I’d had a baby and she had been taken away from me. I saw what Mammy did with my own eyes.

I would wake up during the night and my heart would be pounding. My arms would ache to hold my baby, and the feeling of emptiness was overbearing. I could hear my baby crying, and the sound haunted me and gave me terrible nightmares.

The more I mentioned the baby, the angrier Mammy got. I was much more frightened of her now than I had ever