Gentle Hands IV

The child never cried. It never had a chance to. It was too soft too sweet and too quiet, much too quiet. She knew it was the wrong thing to do, that even he wouldn’t forgive her, that even she wouldn't forgive her(self). How can one be wrong for doing what one has no other choice to do? Grey eyes now, grey eyes casting guilt through the mirror. Who did she hate more, the father or the mother, the infestation or the incubation or was it the culmination? Did she really hate the child, her child, their child? It never even cried. --In the train car the telephone poles made soft rhythmic sounds as they rushed by. He would have rode forever to make it in time, to be in time together.