Save Our Souls

Quent:
There were seven of us, in the beginning. Seven in the womb at once, seven brothers and sisters, but only five of us made it through birth. Caesarean. Seven very small babies, pulled from the opened stomach of a screaming girl. Our father stood beside her as long as he could, trying to help her through, standing by to see if his children were okay.

I wonder what Christine and Jessica would have been like if they had survived. I had my two surviving brothers and my two surviving sisters, and then I found out about those two. They might have been blonde, like Uncle Gunther. They might have been like one of us five or something completely different.

Our father took drugs, but he so wanted to be there for us. I could see him struggling at times, trying to give up his habits, go cold turkey, for his family.

They had a lot of children after us, after the septuplets. We were known as the Famous Five at school. Fourteen little brothers and sisters, and now we're barely into adulthood. Our father died before the last one was born. He had appendicitis, but he barely knew he was sick until he collapsed in the street one day. Mother died in labour with the youngest, Eunice. She bled out, and the doctors stood by and did nothing. We had to raise the little ones, so we all stuck around.

Then we were running out of money, but we were still at school. We...Carol and Allison dropped out to look after the little ones, but by the end of my last year at school, Allison was dead. Some kind of organ failure. We got home and found out they had been letting the little ones go hungry. There was no money and no more food, and soon all the bills would have to be paid. I came home from a safe haven and found myself in a cess pit of desperation. We had to find a job, but several days of no food later and we still had nothing. Then Carol got a job. Carol would go out every night and come back around midday with a few packs of biscuits or something. Hardly a feast, but a single chocolate digestive was better than an empty stomach with nothing to digest.

Something was getting to me. One of the little ones was sick. This life would be the doom of us all. This poverty cycle. Distractions caused bad grades, bad grades meant bad or no jobs, and that meant more distraction for the little ones.

I got talking to someone. The others say she isn't there. Her name is Fiona, and she's my girlfriend, and I hate when they tell me she isn't really there. She's a little overweight, not starved by circumstance, meaning she has a decent amount of money. Her skin is cream coloured and soft, and her hair blonde and pulled back in a bun. She looks fairly average, I like her for her personality, and her eyes are beautiful, sea green. Fiona is the most amazing person ever. She comforts me when I'm upset (but I have yet to see her upset), keeps me from starving, acts almost like a guardian angel.

And she tells me about my brother, Carol. She tells me he is a fake. He is lying. He doesn't have a job, he's getting this money through bad means. Bartering with bad people or selling himself, something horrible like that. I don't trust Carol. I only trust myself and Fiona, because Fiona doesn't talk to anyone else. She only has time for me, and is always there to comfort me when I need it most. And unlike the others, she has never lied, or told me someone close to me doesn't exist. She has taught me to be sneaky, listen in on conversations, learn the secrets. I will learn the secrets.

Carol:
The closest brother I had was Allison. We were identical. Our whole lives we were the same, and we liked being the same.

The leather jacket and trousers that, had I been a decent weight, would have been tight, were his before they were mine.

I wait until night fall and go out to the pubs, the red light district and stand on a corner with a sign that makes it clear I'm looking for customers. My ginger hair is slicked back, my jacket hangs open even though my torso is hardly a pretty sight. All skin and bone, sunken stomach and protruding ribs and pelvis. I don't have any fat in my cheeks. I already look pretty much dead. It's cold and, scantily dressed as I am, I find it hard to stop from shivering. A man comes over, drunk and singing, and I do my best to look appealing. Starved as I am, my appearance makes most walk on, but when all the other prostitutes are gone and a man wants some fun, or a girl on her hen night wants a good shag before dedicating her life to one man, I get my lucky break. I lie on a bed in a cheap inn and do what they want, whether it's thrusting or sucking, or just lying there while they do the deed. I don't earn much, but I can buy a little food for the family and hope it stretches for more than five seconds.

I don't eat with them. Everyone else eats, and I don't have so much as one bite until I know everyone else has eaten. Usually it doesn't even stretch as far as to feed seven kids. I haven't eaten for a few days now and I feel faint, and ever so sick. The only thing I've had in my belly these past days is water and another man's semen. Not pleasant. Not in any way.

The thing is, someone else needs to get a job, and urgently. Not only are we still starving, but I can't do this much longer. I can't tell them, I'm too afraid, but I've caught things. Clients in the past who were marked with STIs, and I just left it even when I knew I was sick. When the STIs began to show, I lost a lot of clients. It couldn't be over, though. I had a family to feed.

When I was starved, couldn't take it any more, I would rifle through bins for a little breakfast for myself. When the period of not even the nastiest clients coming loomed over us, I had to go through bins for food for all of us, which unfortunately meant coming come with apple cores, rotting food and banana peel and saying it was the best I could do.

Everything went downhill fast. The Syphilis advanced, meeting no resistance as it coursed through my already weakened body, and when I finally went to the doctors, because the last time I had gone to the bathroom I had excreted blood, I found I had left it too long. Broken heart, dicky kidneys, out liver, the works. I kept on like normal, or what was normal for us. As things get worse and worse, I realise something scary. I'm dying, and they have to be told eventually.

I was convinced by a friend to tell them a week before...something dreadful happened...they didn't take it well.

Things got worse, and I got worse. Cerelie had begun to refuse to leave her room, and Quent would only talk to people who weren't there or Janthine. I had started vomiting blood as well as peeing it, and, feeling so weak and sickly, ended up confined to the sofa. The bed was a little out of my league, as younger siblings still had to sleep there. Quent had to be moved to a room separate from the others because he was getting violent. He was sometimes shut in with me, and that was terrifying, but usually Jan guided him to the kitchen and sat him on the broken dishwasher, soothing him.

Without any income, with me too sick to even stand, they ran out of money, and out of food. When we lost power, I became accustomed to the dark and now I don't like having the living room light on. I don't know where they get food from, but I can hear Janthine and Cerelie debating. There's enough for one kid, perhaps, and they have to choose who to feed, who is in most need. That is where the proof lies. The proof that the Fosters are at the lowest of the low now. I try to lift myself up, to try and help, but I just flop back down and empty my stomach into a waiting bucket. Heh. Just water and blood. I have a nephew now, and between times I've been too sick to leave my space, I have gone out and tried to earn my keep the same old way, and I've brought something in. And now I lie here, breath rattling in my throat, dry as sandpaper, pale as a ghost. In my weak state I welcome the darkness as an old friend as I get some relief from the pain. A moment of numbness, and I can't think. I can just slip away into the caress of the night.

Cerelie:
When we have no money, I got involved with a boy. This was back when Carol was...not puking blood. I can't say healthy, I don't think any of us were ever healthy.

In school, I was branded to have an attitude problem. When things started to go so downhill the years after, I met with a boy who, at school, I had hardly spoken to. His name was Henry, and I let myself fall into his arms. It was a trap. A honey trap. It was exciting. When I went to his place, I had food and water, and somewhere to warm my feet and wash my body, and he saw me like a pet when I went through that little routine. And then Henry would lead me up to his bedroom, carefully undress my skeletal frame while I undress his far more substantial body, and he would grab my legs, swinging me up into his arms before slipping me into the bed beside him and straddling my bony hips, leaning down to kiss my lips. His fingers entwine with my fiery red hair and brush across my cheek, neck, breast. He lowers himself down and slowly, gently as he can, places himself inside me. Movement, slow and rhythmic, before the pace quickens, the pleasure begins, the passion rockets into the sky in a glorious haze and noises, deep and guttural, of longing and love, passion and pleasure, moans that tell the world we are a perfect match, echo around the room.

Then it is over. I am sweating, it was warm. The sweat cools me down too fast, and I shiver as I get up and find my clothes, despite his objections. I have to leave, get home before the family get suspicious. He offers financial help, but I fear becoming indebted to him. I refuse it politely, explain and say I must get home, and then I leave. Out into the cold streets, my body feeling sore. Home, my brain caught between high and low, shifting with every step like a seesaw. It was good, but it was bad. Henry used to date my sister, Janthine. Henry had money this family needed, but would never be able to pay back.

Carol is sick. My period is late, but I assume it is because I haven't eaten properly. We know he is a prostitute, even though he tries to hide it. Janthine wants to get a job, but she has nerve troubles with her leg and is finding it difficult to cope. I want to find a job, but my bad attitude and bad grades speak against me. I am hungry, and then I feel sick.

I argue with one of the little ones. Upset, I storm out of the house with nowhere to go unless I go to Henry's. That is how I found out I was just a game. He had a whole collection of girls. He only kept on the best at pleasure. I was nothing more than a sex toy to him. Floods of tears pour from my eyes and I don't go home that night. I sleep down an alleyway, eating cardboard. Don't judge, desperate times mean desperate measures.

I don't realise until, getting dressed one morning, I see a slight bump beneath my waistband. I haven't had a period twice in a row now, but I had still been putting it down to the distinct lack of diet. I snuck out of the house that morning, down to a chemist, and stole a pregnancy test. It came back positive. Positive. There were eighteen people in this house already, and they did not need me making more members. Further more, I was surprised it was still alive. Like, I've been starving. I thought I would miscarry babies by now.

I kept it quiet. Carol wasn't working at all any more, and I hadn't left my room all week apart from to steal that. I must have been coming up to three months now?

I went to a coffee bar when the third month arrived. I hadn't yet had it die on me, and there I found a girl who had been friends with all the famous five, as we used to be known. She got my situation out of me, gave me some food for the family even though she herself was struggling, and I didn't want that...after my month locked away, I'd changed. I didn't want Carol to die. It had hit me so hard. I didn't have that attitude any more. Now what I had was a nervous stutter and the ability to burst into tears every five seconds. Cassie bought me maternity clothes and pregnancy vitamins, because I didn't want my baby to die. At first I had been hoping I would miscarry, but now I was scared.

I passed the first trimester, and Cassie kept helping us. I wore baggier clothes as I grew and grew, gaining weight despite how little I ate. When I was pregnant, I was always hungry. In the second trimester, the morning sickness started, and I had trouble keeping anything down. The cravings were nuts. I found myself craving shoes and had already started chewing on my pink pumps before I realised what was going on. I ended up anaemic. The amount of iron I was taking killed. Cassie had beaten up Henry for not helping in any way, but I hadn't wanted his help anyway. I just wanted my baby.

By the time it was a real struggle to hide it, I felt exhausted. I was tired, both from the anaemia and general pregnancy. I can feel it move and it's wonderful, but scary. I'm going to have a baby, even though I live with all my siblings in major poverty. A baby. A child of my own, my own creation, and...and I've been in tears before, thinking about it.

When baby starts kicking, the kicks are weak. Weaker than most babies should be. I haven't eaten for a couple of days, because Carol's getting better and I still haven't told my family I'm pregnant, so Jan decided we had to focus food stores on nursing him back to health. I go round Cassie's house for some food, and we talk a moment about the baby.

Carol was up and walking around, playing with the little ones, but looking paler than ever. He looks like a gentle breeze could pull him down. At one point he came to the bedroom and sat on the bed. I was on my back in a big, baggy jumper, chewing my shoe again. He gives me an odd look.
"That tasty?"
"Tastes better than I thought it would."
He shrugged. He sounded hoarse. I felt a pain in my stomach and placed my hand over where the pain was. It was dull, but radiated. I felt a toughness beneath my hand. It was weird, but it didn't last long. It was uncomfortable, and Carol noticed and asked what was wrong, and I looked at him and thought...I thought about how sick he looked and how weak and I cried. He tried to soothe me, sitting me up and wrapping his arms around me, and I got worried he would feel the baby belly.  I crossed my arms over my chest and stomach and put my chin on my chest and he kept trying to soothe me. The pain came back suddenly, like my belly was tightening itself up. I decided a warm bath might quiet the pains, so I told Carol and went to run my bath. I undressed and frowned. Pink goop in my underwear. I choose to ignore it and get into the bath. Bubble bath so it is extra soothing. From a bottle of bubble bath that had not been used since Dad died. The door was locked and I was relaxing, but for the pains that came and went and the odd feeling I was peeing in the water, even though my bladder was already empty. In two months, my baby was supposed to be born, but no. I realised there that it was coming now.

I needed a plan of action. Baby was coming early and would be underweight. I wasn't prepared and nobody knew I was pregnant. The baby had survived this long, I was damned if it would fall at the last hurdle. I didn't even know if it was a he or she, as I never had gotten a scan. The pain pulsed through again, stronger now, and lasting longer, coming faster and faster, and I groaned through gritted teeth. Then, dread of dreads, someone tried to open the door. "Can I come in and wash my hands?" Asked the voice of one of the little ones, and I didn't respond as I was having another contraction. I don't know how long it took, but a crowd gathered outside the door, banging and demanding to be let in. They were worried about me, I could tell from their tones. It was hurting a lot more now, and I had no clue what to do. I was scared, alone here in the room with bangs outside, hours in water doing cold. Terrified. I slipped out of the bath and went to the door. "I'll let Jan in, no-one else." I insisted, tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. I needed help, and Jan was the only person I could trust. I unlocked the door and she came in, took one look at me and just...screamed. It was a short, angry scream. "What is this?" She shouted.
"I'm having a baby." I answered through sobs.
There was a moment's silence before she used magic to warm the bath up again and left. "Jan, please! I need your help! Jan!" I cried after her, tears streaming down my face. She slammed the door behind her and I returned to the bath, hoping I could make it through this. I heard her telling the others about the baby. A few more hours passed and it was agony. I screamed. More of a high pitched moan that was rather loud than a scream. It definitely wasn't full on screaming like Jan had done. No-one else came in. I'm not sure if they were outside or not, but I was almost desperate for some company through this.

Blood stained the bathwater. I had been there for hours upon hours, almost certainly a whole day. I wanted to go to hospital. I couldn't withstand this pain, but every cry I let out went unanswered and...the water I was sat in was filthy now, but I didn't want to get up. Even so, I hoisted myself out, even though the pain was so bad I wanted to curl up in a ball and never see the light of day. I was scared. I stood and braced myself on the sink, hands gripping the basin so tight my knuckles went white, and I realised I had no clue what to do, and I tried one more desperate call for my big sister. I felt the urge to push and I did, and behind me the door opened, and the light clicked on, and then Janthine's arms were around my shoulders. She was soothing me, and telling me how I looked. My cheeks had gone as red as my hair, and she couldn't tell what was bath water and what was sweat. Then the pain was worse, and Jan's arms disappeared, and I heard it. I heard my baby crying. Jan grabbed a towel and wrapped baby up before shoving it into my arms, bidding I hold it close to my chest. I'm scared to check the sex. I don't know why, I just am. I feel exhausted and she makes me sit down, drapes a towel around me and continues to say soothing things, apologising for not being there before. Carol wants to hold the baby.

Janthine:
I hate everything. I have so much weight on my shoulders. Carol makes money by going out and fucking people, and though I hate it, I have to admit it's his own fault he's sick. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful, he's trying so hard just to support his siblings, but the way he's doing it...it's wrong. We need to do something else, something less degrading and wrong. I try and ignore it all, but nobody understands. Having brothers and sisters is horrible, simply horrible. You start to care about them, you love them, and always want to put them first. Having so many is difficult. So many to care for and worry about, and it upsets me so much because I never know what to do, and I'm trying so hard to get a job and bring in money in a decent way that won't make anyone sick, but no-one wants to hire this batty old dowdy. I hate it, I hate it! I'm the eldest of the family, even with four of us still alive born at the same time.

I try and keep up a firm front while the boys are ill. I have to. I have to be brave and help my siblings, but it isn't working. It's getting worse.

And now I feel awful. Waiting for my brother, a girl chatted me up and I spent the night at her place while my precious quintuplet brother got arrested and nobody dealt with everyone else, but for one night, just one night, I forgot my problems, let myself fall to lust, could pretend I didn't have so many hungry siblings to care for. This girl made me feel like no other could. And the next day I had to run home to check on my siblings. They missed me, of course, and a few hours after I got home, so did Carol, looking beaten and tired. He stepped into the threshold looking like he was on the verge of tears and threw up on the carpet. He collapsed after that. That was when Cerelie came to me and told me the desperation of the situation. Things were especially bad and my poor sister looked so exhausted, caring for not only her siblings but a new born child of her own. I wanted to cry, seeing them so beat down by life alone and instantly I felt awful about spending the night with dream girl. And then I lost even her because I had to make it up, I had to focus on fixing things for my family, keeping them alive and safe.

The next morning, I went downstairs. The morning after the break up. The house was cold as ever and I wore my dressing gown over my jacket, and when I entered the living room there was this feeling of dread. Quent was in there, sat in the corner seat, cuddling Carol close to him. He was crying. I stepped closer and saw how pale he was. "Quent?" I asked. "Carol?"
Quent looked up and shook his head. I didn't realise what he meant at first so I left him to it and went to try handing in my CV to people again. Halfway down the road I realised that as well as being even paler than normal, he had blood left unwiped, trailing from his mouth, and had been so still. The whole world seemed to tilt before me as I began to think my brother was dead. I had never seen Allison's body when he'd died. I fell and rested against the wall a moment, and then there came a voice, calling my name. I looked and a hand went to my shoulder, and it was Cassie, Cerelie's friend. I couldn't speak, my throat had gone tight. The thing is, I was never the strong one in the family. That was always Allison, Cerelie...I was the weak, overfriendly one. Heck, when my sister told me she was having a baby I freaked out, ran down the road and had a panic attack. I'm so sorry I left her in the lurch. I'm so sorry I let a group of thugs beat up Carol. I'm so, so sorry I couldn't be a better big sister. I'm so sorry.