Sun Is Rising

The Sun Is Rising

It's cold at four in the morning though the sun will soon rise and pour
warmth into the sleeping flesh of the earth. The mother cradles her
first-born daughter in the front of the family car, wiping the salt
dried in the tear trail from her cheeks. From here the daughter could
be sleeping, dreaming, content in a brief respite before the waking
world reimposes its autistic curse upon her.
The mother gently shifts her daughter's 17-year-old weight against the
passenger door, adjusting the pillow so the daughter's head doesn't
bang against the window, and starts the car. As the car pulls out onto
the road she wonders how she'll tell her husband.
The dressing-gown cord slides from the backseat into iceblock sticks
and lolly wrappers carpeting the floor as she rounds the corner back
towards town.

The phone rings in the hallway of their home and the mother, now a year
younger, answers it.
'I'm sorry, but we cannot keep your daughter here anymore,' says the
voice on the other end, barely containing the brimming anger and
impatience. 'Can you come and collect her now, please?'
'I can't get...' the mother replies before the line cuts off.
She hears glass smashing and a child bawling from the kitchen. The
mother sweeps up her pre-school daughters and bundles them into the car
whispering soothing okays and alrights, registering the spilt milk for
later.
'Where are we going, Mum?' says the older of the twins.
'To get your older sister, honey.'
'Has she been bad again?'
'No, hon, no, welfare's just a little busy at the moment to look after
her.'
'She's been bad,' states one twin to the other as the car lurches off
towards the IHC centre.

They pass the river at four thirty in the morning and the mother slows
the car as they cross the bridge she had urged her first-born to leap
from.
'No, the water's too cold!'
She contemplates her daughter, head still resting against the passenger
window, and wonders if it would have been different if she had been
more persistent. It is too dark for her to see the purple bruising
flowering around her daughter's throat. The sun will soon rise and shed
light upon the world for all to see.

The mother, now three years younger, tries to scrape the faeces off her
eldest daughter's face and chest. She doesn't know where the shirt she
dressed her first-born in this morning has gone.
'Fuck off!' her daughter screams as a smeared hand slips inside her
pants and masturbates. 'Fuck me!'
'Stop that,' says the mother, pulling her daughter's arm out. 'I've
told you before.'
The daughter strikes the mother and screams at her. As the mother
tries futilely to guide the daughter into the car, a male nurse comes
to help. The babies in the back are crying now.
'I'm sorry,' says the mother. 'She's not usually like this.'
The nurse nods sadly knowing she is. When they drive off he can still
hear the daughter chanting 'Fuck off! Fuck me! Fuck off!' until it
slowly fades amongst the noise of every day.

At five thirty in the morning the car pulls into the driveway. The
mother sits in silence with the engine idling. At some stage of the
journey her daughter's head has lolled forward. She decides against
propping it up, it will only fall again.
The night-light blinks on and the front door opens. Her husband stands
there - eyes sunken, chin stubbled - and waits. The mother gets out of
the car and walks slowly towards him. He reaches out for her and she
bursts into tears as she falls into his arms.
'I've done it,' she sobs into his shoulder.
His strong arms and hands cradle and comfort her. He whispers soothing
okays and alrights. 'I love you,' he says. They stand together, holding
tight.
When she feels stronger she gets into the car and takes her daughter
down to the police station. The darkest hour passes and the sun is
rising.

The End