Heiress in Distress

•Chapter 2•

This isn't my first experience with grief, I've felt something akin to this -sans the hollow feeling- before when I lost my grandpa to septicaemia.
But nothing compares to this; debilitating pain centred in my chest, weighing me down and hauling me ten feet under.

A sharp, ear-piercing infantile wail has me momentarily putting my grieving session on hold.

For the first time tonight, I cast the innocent little one -orphaned at only 3 days old- a long-lasting glance, wondering how cruel and unfair this world can be.

I begin rocking her back and forth, prompting her crying to wind down.
In the background, I can hear the rhythmic ticking of one of the blinkers; I wipe my eyes to peer over the driver's shoulder, noticing -through the speedometer- how the car gradually decelerates until it finally stops.

My head moves around with a whiplashing force, thinking my parents are the reason we stopped.

Maybe they did manage to escape and planned to meet us at this spot ?
The hope of their survival limps its way into my slowly crumbling world.

But apprehension kicks in and I instinctually pull the baby's nest closer, watching as the driver leaves the car, but not before reaching under his seat and popping the trunk.

I continue to observe as he grabs something in one hand, slams the trunk shut with the other, and walks with grim determination towards us.

He opens the door to the backseat and wordlessly places an aluminium vanity box, one women usually use to stow their makeup supplies, on the empty spot next to us.
The frown that mounts my expression reflects my pure confusion; does this man really think I could care about my looks in my grief stricken state ?

He remains devoted to his speechlessness and makes no effort to elaborate further, shutting our door and returning to his seat.
My hand sneakily curls around the door handle, pulling quickly only to meet with the disappointment of the child safety lock.

Without looking back for a second, the driver gears into drive, bringing the car back onto the street, and once again we are moving at high-speed.

"Where are my parents ?" The hoarseness of my voice doesn't faze me.

He doesn't answer.

"Where's Andrew ?"

Again, no answer.

"What's in the box?"

He's either mute or he's been given orders to remain silent.

It isn't until another mile or two that my curiosity seeps in, and I find myself flicking the lock on the box to be met with ice sublimate, but the fog clears immediately.
My eyes sting and some tears begin to well up at the sight.

Inside the portable freezer, lies the colostrum syringes my mother began harvesting 36 weeks into her pregnancy, along with a good amount of formula milk stored in small bottles.
He must've assumed the baby's cries are of hunger.

I don't even know when was the last time my mother fed her.
We had chicken curry -my father's favorite- for dinner and went to bed at 8:00.
Checking the dashboard, I note it reads 12:00 AM now.

My noisy weeps have turned down to hiccups, but the thought of starting a new day without my parents summons the desolation back.

The baby begins to cry again, forcing me to bite my lips to stifle my own cries.

I begin by pushing the button on the underside of the baby's nest, which uncaps the polycarbonate glass.

Steadily and gently, I lift the baby off her sanctum and into the cradle of my arms, rocking leisurely.

From the sparse guidance of my mother, I prop up the baby's body against my chest with her head resting on the inside of my elbow.

Reaching over, I pick the syringe labeled "Day 1 to Day 3" and position the tip between her gum and cheek, exactly how my mother taught me, and I squirt an 0.1ml droplet into her mouth.

Her face contorts adorably at the unfamiliar taste, her nose barely wrinkling, and her fragile jaw works its way through it in soft rolls. I can't help the untimely chuckle that escapes my mouth at her ingeniousness, watching her through blurred eyes.

I continue to feed her until her hands are no longer clenched, which indicates satiety, according to human behavioural sciences and my mother.
And if the drooping of her eyelids is any indication, she's not just full but also drowsy.

She's fast asleep by the time we make another detour to a secluded yet appearing to be intensely guarded area.

My jaw splits on a yawn, but I can't bring myself to even blink, let alone close my eyes and sleep.
I don't want to miss anything; we might meet with Andrew at some point or better, my parents.

Andrew's car was parked at a safe distance so, he has to have made it and drove somewhere behind us.

Deep down, I know that's not true, because I've chanced a few glances behind us and was certain Andrew's car wasn't among the nearby speeding cars.

I hope, at least, he made it somewhere safe.

I can hardly keep my eyes open, but I continue to fight the unconsciousness when it begins tugging my eyelids down.

The distant thought that this might be a nightmare, that I have yet to wake up from, keeps me suspended on a thin sheet of ice over the freezing sea of insensibility.

••••

This is one of the shortest chapter I've ever written, but I'm not a huge fan of fillers.
Would hate to stuff the chapter with useless words just to make it seem longer.
Once again, thanks for the time you take to read this (=

-Asia