■ Whispers from the Womb
A DIFFERENT APPROACH to my latest blog where I want to take this opportunity in sharing a dear friend’s (Paul Bayne) short novel entitled, ‘Whispers From the Womb’. He is prolific in writing numerous stories and certainly has a gift with words, holding the reader captivated. This work, and one of his latest, is on the theme of abortion and is written in a narrative style, igniting the imagination and impacting one’s emotions.
As Christians we know that life begins at conception despite what a fallen and depraved world contends for. Society is now driven by ‘Human Rights’ while excluding the billions of lives unborn; their voice is ignored, but even if they are heard through faint whispers, the majority are still denied the very right to live.
Paul’s book, ‘Whispers From the Womb’ is worthy of wide publicity even to film creation that no doubt will evoke deep thought and action, reinforcing the Biblical stand of Christians worldwide – and yes, in the midst of humanity’s largest genocide committed and ongoing, lives can still be saved.
‘Whispers From the Womb’
By Paul Bayne
A story came to me years ago, regarding a doctor who performed abortions. Many, many abortions. So much so, he was widely regarded as Dr. Death. Not exactly the most becoming reputation one can have attached to oneself, however, this was his career and this was something he was very good at. Can someone be a genius at killing the unborn? One can present a reasonable and convincing argument that this doctor was a virtuoso in his field.
Dr. Jonesfield (I’ll call him) was driving home in his beautiful and expensive sedan on a dark and dreary November evening after a successful and satisfying (he enjoyed his work) day at the office. He smiled at the thought of all of the money he had made this day. Not only had hundreds of women, from all classes of society, all ages and all types
submitted to his “procedure”, but the organs harvested would bring in scads of money, making him far more wealthy that he already was. This was, he thought, a most wonderful way to spend one’s lifetime. Perhaps, he thought, he was being blessed? He smiled at the thought.
As he turned into the circular cobblestone drive of his ten bedroom, three story home, he noticed his maid had the fire going in the fireplace. He loved fires. He most loved those fires built in stone fireplaces where one could sit with a poker and rummage around, pushing pieces of this and that here and there, contented and happy, feeling the heat of the flames singing his face. He sighed happily as the garage door quietly shut behind him.
As he opened the door of his car to step out, he caught a glance of someone in his rear view mirror. He quickly glanced in the back seat, but saw nothing. He shrugged and figured his nerves needed a glass of something to chase away the cries of anguish he was exposed to on a daily basis. Nothing major, just remnants of his job. Every career has something, he thought. No worries. Just something he needed to live with, while he blessed the overpopulated masses with his “gift.”
As he entered the kitchen, the smells of garlic, roasted beef and herbs invaded his senses. He breathed deeply and smiled. His maid was a magician! She had a knack of making even the simplest of meals, succulent.
He called out to Marie, and she answered from the dining room. She was setting a place for one at the twelve foot, oak and ebony dining table he imported from Africa in the late ‘70’s.
He never married or had (gag) children, so one must wonder why such a large table when only one, lone man would fill one lone place every night? He bragged that if he had the means, why not flaunt them?
Marie came around the corner and curtsied and informed the good doctor she was leaving for the night as she had a prior engagement to attend. He nodded and agreed. He learned early on in his career, that in order to keep good help, he would have to be flexible. If they needed a day off, say yes. It had worked so far, as he had Marie for 15 years now, and she stated on many occasions how happy she was. The same was true with the gardener.
As Marie left for the evening with a friendly good-bye and promise to return in the morning before he got up, he sat down and devoured the meal with a zeal that one experiences when eating a truly incredible meal.
After finishing off the last drops of his Domaine Leroy Richebourg Grand Cru 1949, he retired to the den to curl up by the fire and a good book. He was engrossed in a book by one of his heroes, the famous (or perhaps infamous) Margaret Sanger, aptly named ‘Family Limitation’.
He smiled at the flames, and stretched as the heat chased away the last vestiges of the day, the miserable weather and life in general. As he sat dozing, book in lap, he perked up his hearing as a noise stirred his attention. He turned to the hallway and shrugged. He turned back and threw another log on the fire. He watched the sparks sail up toward the chimney. He clasped his hands together and thought about actually falling asleep right there tonight. Then he thought he heard someone giggling.
He sat there listening without turning. Something was creeping up the fine hairs of his neck and this time he couldn’t just shrug it off. It was the feeling of not being alone. He enjoyed the feeling of peaceful solitude but that solitude was broken by an unwanted presence.
He thought back to when he thought he saw something in his car when he drove in. Someone hitched a ride with him and now wanted to harass him in his own home! Probably one of those nut-case protesters. He sighed and listened some more but heard nothing. He was so comfortable and cozy his desire to stay there undisturbed overwhelmed the possibility of someone being in his house, so he convinced himself that it was only his imagination playing tricks on him.
He looked back at the dining room, where his wine was kept. Shoot, he thought. He wished he had the foresight to bring the bottle with him. Meh, whatever. He closed his eyes and dozed.
Sometime later he awoke with a start as a small, colorful ball landed in his lap. He stared at it, blinking the fuzziness of sleep away. What on earth, he thought!
He forced himself up and stretched. He looked back at the dark hallway and thought maybe Marie crept back in and was playing a prank on him. It wouldn’t be the first time. She had a quirky side to her personality which included practical jokes.
“Marie”, he called out, “if that’s you, please show yourself.”
He stared out trying to look into the blackness. He would just have to go out there and turn on the lights and look around for the cretin.
As he ventured into the dark hallway, the large floor to ceiling windows shone back at him, casting an ominous path of light upon the marble, tiled floor. He could see the statues and ornate winding’s of the railings as they cascaded down the spiral staircase from the second floor. He reached for the light switch (why is it so far away in the darkness?), and then saw a fleeting shadow dash past into the darkness. It seemed to be the shadow of a child. He looked up in disgust. That’s all he needed! Children in his house, messing up things, breaking his priceless possessions, muddying up the floors…really!
“Okay you,” he shouted, “Show yourself”!
Once the lights from the large, Italian chandelier flooded the hallway, he could see that he was alone once again. He looked behind the sculptures and potted banana trees, expecting to see some little, dirty urchin hiding in the corner.
Nothing. Where did it go?
He walked around the house, gaining in courage as he went, knowing that it was just some snot-nosed brat disturbing his peace and not some escaped convict ready to lash out at him from the shadows.
As he walked into the library, he felt a cold breeze flood over him. Was there a window open now? Upon investigating for the window or windows that were obviously open, he heard someone race out of the room knocking over one of his priceless vases.
“Oh c’mon!” He shouted angrily. “This is enough! I will call the police unless you show yourself!”
He walked briskly into the den again and stop in shock. There seated in his easy chair, by the fire, was a child. A little girl, not more than five years of age. He slowly walked up to her and stared at this sprite, stretching out her little legs to the heat. She was small and dark-haired, dressed in a red and white, polka-dotted dress, white socks and black patent shoes. She seemed to either ignore him or not be aware of his presence.
“You there!” he demanded. “What’s your business here?”
She slowly looked up at him and smiled. There was something haunting in her eyes. As if they were empty, hollow…dead. The fire bounced off of her face and she turned back to the flames.
He put his hand on her shoulder firmly yet quickly pulled it back. She felt cold and wet, even through her clothes. She gave off a strong smell of blood. He covered his face in revulsion.
Funny…he performed thousands of abortions over the years and never felt a tinge of revulsion over any part of the procedure. But yet, this little girl…something about her made him uneasy.
“W, who are you?” he asked unnerved by this apparition. “Why are you in my home?” She didn’t answer, but stared at the fire as it danced upon the stones and ornate furnishings of the den.
As the doctor was about to ask again, he slowly turned to see the room filling up with little children of all ages, of all sizes. There were children from all races and ethnicities, and it seemed from different periods in history. But they all seemed, well, dead. There was something odd about them all. Something sad, quieted, lonely. None of them made a sound, but slowly crept closer and closer.
The doctor backed up, away from them until the heat from the fire caused him to wince in pain. He looked around for an escape route but was cornered against the large, stone hearth.
“Back away from me you little leaches!” He yelled. “Give me space!”
They stopped and stared at him through their black, hollow eyes. The room was full of children. Hundreds perhaps? The air stunk of death. The doctor covered his face, hoping they would all be gone when he opened his eyes. They weren’t.
“Why are you covering your eyes?” A little boy asked, clutching a dirty teddy bear to his chest.
The doctor looked in his direction when another child asked if he knew where his mommy was. Before the doctor could respond, more and more asked the same question. Soon the dark, scary room resounded with the hollow, haunting cries of the children, wondering where their mommies and daddies were.
The doctor clutched his ears, and ran through the mass of children and out into the hallway. He looked this way and that, looking to escape his nightmare. He ran upstairs and into his bedroom and locked the door. He sunk against the large heavy door and attempted to control his breathing. A man of his age shouldn’t be exerting himself in such a way, he thought. Bad for the heart you know.
He turned and sat down on his bed and stared at the phone situated on his nightside table. He then glanced at the time: “3 o’clock?” he muttered, “Where has the time gone?”
He looked back at the phone pondering if he should call the police. After all, this was his home and they were trespassing! He reached for the phone and stopped when he saw a little blond, blue-eyed girl standing in front of him with a black leather bag in her hands.
“What are these for?” she asked.
He stared at her for a moment, then realized that she was rummaging around in a bag full of razor sharp tools.
“Give me those!” he yelled. “You’ll hurt yourself!”
“Aren’t those what they’re for?” she asked.
Her comment took him aback. He gasped and grabbed the bag from her cold hands. He put the bag on the bed behind him. “How did you get in here?”
“I dunno,” she answered. “I was just here. Have you seen my Mommy?”
“I don’t know where your mother is! Why ask me?!”
“Because you took me away from her.” she answered with tears welling up in her beautiful blue eyes.
“I? I took…” He stared at her, this little creature, standing there, wet, cold, shivering…alone. She beckoned to him with her eyes.
He turned away. He couldn’t take this. Whoever orchestrated this gag, well, they’ll pay dearly, he thought.
After a few moments, he felt a hand upon his. He slowly opened his eyes to see the little girl seated beside him. She held his hand in hers. She smiled her dirty, tear-soaked face at him. “It’s okay. I understand.”
“What’s okay?” He asked.
“It’s your job. You have to work.”
That was a mature thing to come out of such a little child.
“That’s right!” He agreed. “I do, h, have to work.”
“But, why did you have to kill me for? I didn’t do anything.”
He stared at her as she hung her head and whimpered. She seemed so innocent and lovely. So precious, he felt strange emotions welling up inside. He never felt this way before. Why now? Children were nothing more than parasites! Fleas gorging themselves upon the delicate back of humanity. Pests that needed to be exterminated!
But this little girl, those others downstairs, they were different that those fetuses he threw int he trash. They were ugly, naked, malformed…unwanted.
He looked up to see the dark-haired girl leading the others into his room. They stopped in front of him staring, whimpering, fidgeting, lost. They seemed so lost.
“W, why are you all here?” He asked.
The dark haired girl looked at him and said, “Because you took us away from our mommies.”
“I was doing my job! Your Mommies came to me, may I remind you! They wanted to get rid of you. They didn’t want you!!”
They stared, silent, watching, clutching scant possessions in their hands. Some held teddy bears, others held balls, while some held nothing.
The little blond-haired girl tugged at the doctor’s shirt, “It’s okay. You don’t need to be mad.”
“We didn’t do anything wrong did we?” A Little boy, clutching a teddy bear in his hands, asked.
“You were alive! That’s crime enough. Don’t you understand? The earth can’t handle all of you. Children are a burden and abortion keeps the numbers at bay. I am saving the earth from imminent destruction!”
They stared. They didn’t understand. To a child, all that matters is that mommy and daddy love them. The womb is supposed to be the safest place on earth, yet for these poor, lost souls, it was turned into a place of pain, suffering and death. To feel the stress and hatred from mommy as she plans to kill her baby must be horrific. To know that the womb, where a child is supposed to thrive and feel secure, slowly turns into a place that contracts, burns, boils and squeezes the life from him must be…hell on earth.
“We didn’t know we were burdens.” A little boy from the back said. “We’re sorry.”
The good doctor had performed abortions for well over 40 years. It’s what he did and he did it better than anyone. He learned to control his emotions early on. It was the advice from an aged doctor who taught him the ropes. “Control those emotions son, or you won’t last a week here.”
So he did, and from that day til present, he has remained cold, vigilant and faithful to his cause. But this…how could he remain faithful to the cause if those very children he slaughtered now demanded he answer for his actions? There, in front of him, in vivid color, by the hundreds, every precious child he exterminated, brought home the reality that the so-called fetus that struggled for life and love wasn’t just a glob of cells, or an “accident”, but a gift from God. A beautiful blessing of preciousness that needed protection.
He dropped to his knees on the floor of his opulent Master bedroom, with his precious and expensive possessions and capturings from a life of success and prosperity surrounding him on all sides and wept. He hadn’t cried in years. Crying was for women and wimps; at least that’s what he was taught. He buried his head in his hands and cried. The children that filled the room moved slowly and deliberately toward him and laid their hands, arms and heads on his back, and joined in the agony and pain that each had felt in the womb, as the doctor viciously tore, burned and sucked them to pieces. The room was filled with tears, anguish, remorse and healing.
After a time, the doctor looked up at the little dark-haired girl who nestled her head into his neck and said, “When I performed those proced,….those murders, you didn’t look like this. You weren’t cute and beautiful. You were ugly and disfigured. You were…not like this.”
The little girl with the beautiful dark locks that cascaded to her waist, smiled, placed her hand on his head and answered, “You didn’t give us a chance to.”
The next day, when the maid came to work, let herself in and called out to the doctor, she didn’t receive an answer. No big deal, he was probably still asleep. She tidied up, got a dish wash on and made his breakfast. After filling the lower floor with the mouthwatering smells of freshly brewed coffee, bacon and toast, she ventured upstairs to see if the doctor was up and if he needed anything. She knocked on the heavy wooden door of the Master bedroom, but received no answer. She knocked again and called to him but still no answer was the reply.
She slowly turned the door knob and peered in to see the doctor laying in bed, still dressed, holding a teddy bear in his arms.
Confused, she moved closer to see the doctor had a smile on his face. He looked content and serene but with the remnants of tears staining his face. She stared at the teddy bear in his arms and felt a wave of fear sweep over her. She pushed on his arm but received no response. She felt for a pulse but there was none. The maid gasped and grabbed her mouth, stifling a cry, she ran out of the room to call 911.
After the authorities arrived and examined his body, they revealed that he died of heart failure, however the coroner, confiding in the police informed them that he had been subjected to, what he could only describe as a broken heart for his heart seemed to be torn in two.
Some of Paul Bayne’s other short novels can be found at Amazon.com
His WordPress site: thegospelvideoblog.wordpress.com
Posted on October 30, 2019, in ■ Recommended Reading and tagged abortion, Mark Anthony Williams, Novel, Paul Bayne, recommended reading, Shade of the Moriah Tree, short stories, thegospelvideoblog.wordpress.com, Whispers From the Womb Whispers From the Womb. Bookmark the permalink. 4 Comments.