Tears blur my fingers as they fumble at pills and foil. More vodka.
Leaning back, I drift… Can’t sleep yet – more pills.
A baby wails. My heart clenches, pain radiating to my stomach.
Not a baby. Someone shaking me. ‘Wake up!’
Shan’t – I lash out.
Floating down. Gates.
‘You’re making a habit of this,’ says St Peter.
‘I want to be with my baby. She needs me.’
‘Not any more. She’s safe now.’
‘I need her.’
‘I can’t let you in; you’ve work to do.’
‘I can’t work, can’t sleep. I’ve nothing to live for.’
‘Live for your mum. She’s in the hospital chapel, waiting to hear if her baby’s survived.’
‘But she doesn’t believe…’
‘Then there’s the next woman he moves in with, and the baby he gives her… and takes away again.
You can stop him.’
‘He’d kill me.’
‘Then I’d let you in.’
(Also on Commaful with more pictures)