I remember the little circle pushed up clunk door- locked
the grid marks on the smoked glass window, the metal taste
of water in cold ribbed plastic cup, my foot rocking the baby
sound asleep in his car- seat. I remember the sad collection
of toys; the tangled pink pleats of the ragdoll and the smell of
urine, sick, faeces. The diagram she drew pushing her thin
glasses back up her nose. The circle. A never-ending cycle.
Her sympathetic smile saying; I understand. Dirty teaspoons
by the deep sink, chipped mugs, open jar of coffee. The tap
drip, dripping. The baby’s fingers holding tight onto the blue
ribbon of a deflated balloon, as if he knew what was coming.
Large sized lego bricks stuck together to look like an ice lolly,
I imagine the last child pretending to lick, lick it. The look on her
face as she sat- all eager forward in her plastic chair her glasses
hanging limpy from thin gold chain; I have a room left love
you’ll be safe there. The clunk of the door as I leave for home.
RF Millar is a creative writing student with the Open University. She is working towards a BA in Humanities, which she aims to have finished by next year before beginning a Postgraduate in Creative Writing. She has had a short story published with Ink, Sweat and Tears, and is obsessed with writers website abctales.com.