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You could count on that sign glowing like you could count on the moon. Always hanging there, always shining dully. But this lunar ghost that once shone its text as a brilliant red now seeped a sickening vermilion orange. Its phlegmy green border only exaggerates how painful this eyesore is. And it's the only thing on this block that isn't broken.

Sandra had woken up in the middle of the night needing to piss, and now she lay on her side of the empty bed. This is the dreaded routine. She tries to focus on anything to clear her mind. The fading warmth from the pulled-back comforter beside her won't do: it only reminds her of the broken dryer and the cost of a new one and how everything always feels damp. Sandra focuses on what she can hear, but that doesn't help either. Deep voices mumble from the stairway, sirens speed in the distance, and tiny feet scuttle all over the apartment. Pest control is a luxury one would waste their time dreaming of in this complex. She tries to focus on what she can smell, but the mildew growing in the walls is just as mysterious (and dank) as the odor permeating from whatever is being smoked in the apartment above. There's nothing she can taste since the kitchen cabinets are empty as always, so the only thing left for Sandra to focus on is what she can see: that green and orange neon beaming through the window. It gives Sandra headaches. Through the radiation fogging her brain, only one thought remained:

This must be the perfect place to raise a kid.

Sandra is ten months pregnant. Her due date is now well overdue, and she's paying the fines with sleepless nights. Her and her boyfriend both. At first, she was ecstatic. She could already see a future with Len, and she knew he'd make a great father. She'd always wanted kids. She checked out every new book on motherhood from her local library, but none of them were as helpful as she'd anticipated. Parenting tips were written in price tags that only became less and less affordable as time passed. Sandra had been fired from the post office the same week she found out about the pregnancy. She never officially disclosed the information to her boss, and there's unfortunately no clause for hard workers who take untimely doctors' calls in the parking lot at the same time the office gossip walks by. The neon cuts across the floor, through the room, slicing right into Sandra's head, giving her both another migraine and another realization:

Yes, this must be the perfect place to raise a kid. It MUST be, thought Sandra, because it’s the ONLY place I can afford to raise mine.

When Len can't sleep--which happens to be most nights--he grabs a pack of cigs he promised to quit, and he goes out for a walk. It's a short walk, only a few feet away from the complex, and it's lit in phosphorescence. It smells like stale, ground-up lies, but hey--at least it's open all night. Len takes big gulps, but he likes to save the last one until he's ready to leave. By now it's surely cold. 

When Sandra can't sleep--which happens to be every night--she can't shake away the self-doubts and anxieties and why-isn't-it-out-yets, so she finds herself doing chores most efficiently in the dawning hours. There's no better time to fold laundry than in the middle of the night. Sandra swings her bloated feet to the side of the bed and pulls herself up as best she can. She takes her time waddling over to the window. 

After the second failed attempt of fixing the dryer, Len had makeshifted a clothesline with his old rock climbing rope, from days when he had time for hobbies. Since their apartment was on the corner of the building, their window was much bigger than the others on the hall. There weren't many blessings in her life, but Sandra did count this one. The ledge started at her knees, and unlike the other windows, this one wasn't barred. Len couldn't have set up the clothesline if they'd been in any other apartment on the third floor. As she puts the clothes in the basket, she notices her bladder feels full. Not uncommon, but it had only been a few minutes since she went to the bathroom. But all she has left to grab is a gown pinned toward the end of the rope, just outside the window. Sandra gets on her tiptoes, stretching her hand far out, but it's just out of reach. She rests her thigh on the windowsill to get closer, and in this moment, she feels the entire lower half of her body completely release. The force from her water breaking causes Sandra to lose her balance, and she slips. She falls out of the window. Her limbs flail for something to hold on to, but instead, her neck catches the rope. It twists, it sears and strangles, and Sandra is dangling midair while a man across the street witnesses the entire event.

Len jumps to his feet, knocking his coffee cup against the floor. Without thinking, he's already sprinting out of the coffee shop. He watches her clawing at the rope against her throat. She gasps and chokes and must wish she could scream, beg, anything, but Len helplessly watches the breath and life leaving her body above him. He thinks the situation may not be as helpless as it seems, that maybe there's a chance if he's fast enough, if she can hold out a bit longer, he might be able to save her. With the fight she's putting up, he should have just enough time to run into the building, rush up the stairs, unlock the door, and untwist the rope. He's not strong enough to pull her back out of the window, but that shouldn't matter; if he can just free her from the rope, then she'll surely survive the drop.

But then something warm hits Len's forehead. Something wet. Something dripping.

He looks directly up. 

Underneath the nightgown, barely noticeable under the vermilion light, Len sees a tiny pink foot. 

Sure, at this height, she would survive the drop. But at that height, slamming womb-first into the pavement, the baby would not.

For Len, the choice was simple. It wouldn't be easy to watch the mother of his child asphyxiate just out of his grasp, but after all, she put herself into that situation. She should've known the risk when she leaned out that window. But an innocent child? Len raised his arms, breathing deeply, preparing himself to catch his baby. All the while, his girlfriend struggled, fought, until finally, stillness. Her body hangs. Lifeless. Heavy. And motionless. 

Only one thing moves. Len watches as the soon-to-be-bellybutton slides out of the womb. With no push from its vessel, the only thing that can help this babe escape is the gravity pulling it down. The stench is foul and the liquid stings his eyes, but Len swallows the vomit coming up his throat. If there's ever been a time in his life where he has to be a man, the time is now. The baby keeps slipping out, and Len can almost see its head. Oh God. This is it. It's coming, it's coming, here it comes, don't drop it, God please, here it comes, and--

The baby slithers out of the suspended corpse. Len holds his arms out to catch it. The baby stops just short of his fingertips. It dangles by the umbilical cord. In fact, it hangs by it. Len stares directly into the petite face in front of him, and even in the dark, even with that neon sign as his only light, he can tell its face is purple.

It's a girl.

A baby girl with the umbilical cord wrapped tightly around its neck. A baby girl that never had a chance.

...

Len kneels in front of the river. He closes his eyes and whispers into his clutched hands. He picks up the shoe box in front of him and carefully sends it down the stream. No funeral is held. A prayer was all he could afford.

About the Author

As a child, Lizzy Woodall took great pride in being born on Halloween, for that meant it was destined by the universe that Lizzy love everything horror. Even after finding out that there are actually thirty-ONE days in the month of October, and that Lizzy was definitely not born on Halloween, but rather the day before, Lizzy still was eager to share every self-written scary story to anyone willing to listen.