A woman cried,
“God help me! God help me!”
Her hands clutched her chest,
beating it,
lifting it,
dropping it—
like a child playing catch
with something unseen.
Her headtie, forgotten,
lay on the floor.
There was no shame.
No sound but her prayer
and his breathing—
shallow,
fragile.
Her child.
He had to live.
She would not stop!
It was a place of Death.
He lurked—
Death.
The boy gasped.
The woman screamed.
“God, help me. God, help me.”
Again.
Like it was the only name she had left.
And Death,
even Death,
stood still for a moment.
It was a place of Fear.
It clung to the walls,
sat heavy in the air,
pressed its cold lips against every sleeping child.
No one could rest there.
Not in that room.
Not with Fear in her gown
and Death by the door.
The boy whimpered.
The woman cried again,
“God help me,” she whispered
“God, help me,” she begged.
“GOD! HELP ME!” she screamed, voice cracking like glass.
A push back against the dark.
She had nothing left.
Just hope.
Just faith.
That this night would pass.
That morning would come.
It was a place of death.
A place of fear.
Where a different, violent side to love was seen,
where prayer fought breath for breath.
Still, she cried—
“God help me! God help me!”
And Death,
for a moment,
hesitated.
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