The Innocents

the few moments of clarity she needed in order to plan.
She doubted that she could be in the second stage of labor, not having been conscious except for the last phase of dilation.
Pursing her lips and remembering to use her lungs, she waddled to a corner peppered with shards of a broken beer bottle, remnants of a Molotov the rioters had thrown. The walls were burned, and soot covered the ceiling.
Iris neither had the energy, nor the audacity, to walk to any of the other corners. So she swiped the glass pieces with her feet, and when it was relatively clean, she held her knees and slowly sat down.
Okay. Now to the next step.
Panting, she propped herself on the nook and tilted her hip upwards so that the path for the baby was clear of the floor. She didn’t know when she had last eaten or how long she’d been out cold but she definitely didn’t feel dizzy, not one bit, not anymore. On the contrary, every element of destruction around her was crystal clear.
She waited for the next contraction, and when it came, she grabbed the dirty rug, her fingernails breaking off.
And began counting.
Her insides hurt as if someone had inserted a hot knife into her and twisted it. Whenever a grunt or a scream broke through her, she added five additional seconds to her count. The final number, when the contraction gave her a breathing space at last, was fifty-seven.
Iris relaxed and rested her head back against the wall. Her heart burst in agony, body screamed in pain, and mind in fear, but she would not succumb. She needed to deliver the boy. An overwhelming sense of responsibility enveloped her and gave her the strength to brave through the scariest hour of her life. Alone.
She began counting again. Just as she reached two hundred and forty-two, the contraction returned. The world around her slowed, as if she was underwater, and small stars danced in front of her eye. But when the last thread of consciousness was about to slip and let her drown, she held it tightly and pulled herself back up to the surface.
She slapped her swollen cheek and bit her tongue, the pain bringing in the adrenaline she needed to stay awake.
Another minute of pure hell and the contraction subsided. Maybe the boy had had enough of loafing inside and wanted to come out. Iris felt a teardrop escaping her good eye, warm and pure, dissolving grime on its way.
It could be hours, or days, since Iris had made this corner her delivery ward. Contractions came and went, each spaced out between four to five minutes. She didn’t force herself to push. Her mother had given birth to two of Iris’s older brothers at home. Apparently, the midwife had always advised her to resist the urge to push, and only when the urge was unbearable did you push and everything happened naturally. Your body knew what to do as evolution had been doing it for thousands of years and ingrained the techniques in every woman’s DNA.
After experiencing every second of what felt like a thousand contractions, she sensed the crowning. She reached in between her thighs and felt around. Her heart fastened when her fingertips found a foreign body there, yet so intertwined. The slimy, hairy protrusion gave her the kind of hope she didn’t know she had in her. She just knew that the next few contractions were more important than anything in her life.
Her hands, which were first trembling, were now as controlled as a veteran surgeon’s. Steadfast purpose infused her with the power of concentration and calm. When she couldn’t resist the urge to push, she gave in to the feeling and the baby’s head slid out into her cupped hands. On the next contraction, the boy’s shoulders wedged out. She held the baby and gave one final push as the placenta and the remainder of his body were ejected. It didn’t hurt that much anymore.
Iris closed her eye and a flood of relief and euphoria washed over her, giving her goosebumps.
Finally, she pulled the baby out from under her. His body was covered in fluid, his face pale and bloody. The most striking feature about him was his eyes: they were sparkling blue.
And composed.
So it didn’t surprise Iris that he did not cry. Instead, he wrapped his tiny fingers around his mom’s thumb.
Wild energy burst inside her and she shot up to her feet with one goal in mind: comfort the baby from the cold—he would have been cocooning in the warmth of his mommy until now.
Carrying the boy, she limped over to an empty cardboard box. In one quick motion, she yanked the bubble wrap out, upending the box. This new invention would provide the necessary warmth and protection for the newborn, but would not scrape his tender, wet skin.
She wrapped the sheet around the little bundle of joy, leaving only his head out. Lacking the means to snip the cord, she carried the baby to the street, determined to find some help. As she crossed the glass window, she glanced at her face in it. Even though it was purple from fighting the impossible battle alone, it flashed with pride, and a victorious smile hid at the corner of her lips.
The smog assaulted her as soon as she stepped into the world outside. Rubble was strewn across the tarmac, and the opposite building, Leroy’s furniture shop, was now just a charcoal monstrosity. On her left, a gang of rowdy misfits were hurling stones at the shop next door, the second-floor windows of which were spewing fire, and a column of black smoke raged over it, hiding the sun and sky. To her right, a group of infantrymen shot at a bunch of rioters. In spite of hating them to the core, she hoped they were shot with