At age seven I vowed to never again bite a worm in half. Nasty creatures, worms; I have no idea what possessed me to do it. Actually I do. I remember Melissa Saunders dared me, and Peter Luke. So I did it. I couldn't have them jeer at me and go screaming round the road that I, Sophie Wilson, was a coward. "Soppy Sophie" they'd shout. I was such a sad child that I needed their friendship, more than they needed mine. They only came to my house because I had the biggest garden on the road, with a small inflatable pool with seats, a huge climbing frame, a swing, and trees to run around.
         I lacked for nothing.
         My mother refused to give everyone lemonade like the other mothers did when I was invited into their gardens. My mother never bathed topless like some, so the boys never came round to stare at her non-existent tits.

When not in my garden everyone else went to the Brownies or Cubs or ballet lessons or piano lessons. I was too scared. Of course I like to look back at that time and say that I recognised from an early age that I wasn't a joiner, but an elitist-on-the-edge-of-things loner. But secretly I really wanted to join those activities. To this day I have no idea what really happens at Brownie meetings; it's a secret life from which I have excluded myself. I blame an accident I had when I was five for this fear.
         I was trapped inside one of those material caterpillars—a big green tunnel held in shape by coiled wire—by two older boys at either end whilst at nursery school. When they finally let me out I vowed never to go in one of those horrid things again. I tried to get my mother not to let me go back at all but she liked the independence me being at nursery school gave her to go to work. Memory is so flimsy. I find it odd that at the age of five I existed, ran around, used words, thought, and ate, but now in my mid-thirties, packing to eventually leave, I hardly remember anything about that former self.

Twelve, and I vowed never to let the other girls see me crying. I think I kept to it, though I can't be sure. I search and search my memory for all the details. I'd like to remember the details, to figure out why. So much happens to us in our lives; how is it possible to remember every minute, every event, everything anyone says to us? Words are said, things happen that fill up our time, but ultimately they're worthless because we don't remember them. We only remember the moments too unique to forget.
         At twelve I was far too sensitive to children's cruel ways of dealing with each other. I let them get to me; I let them influence me. I am no longer so influenced. I stand firm, steadfast, as I stand firm now to the decision I have made, no matter what the consequences. As adults we are more polite in our everyday actions. It would be considered far too rude to pull a girl’s skirt down in the middle of Covent Garden's Crush bar. Such a person would be considered psychotic, socially maladjusted, but it goes on in playgrounds every school day all over the country. It's called playing. No wonder I was scared about joining in when joining in meant insecurity. Would it be your turn to have you skirt pulled down, or be sent to Coventry, or to decide today would be the day when they would practice their linguistic skills by calling you all the names they could possibly dream up? Every day I feared playtime. I feared being seen to be alone. I feared what my friends would do to me. My friends played kiddie power games with my head.
         What I really remember was the day in Art I was sitting quite comfortably doing a drawing of the French Revolution: culottes, berets and guillotines. The world seemed calm; I was surrounded by my friends, the class was busy with their drawings; a few days to go and we'd be free, out in the long breath of summer holidays. I stood up and crossed to the other side of the room to get a new piece of paper. I was only gone a minute but a minute was all it took for them to banish me, like a coven of witches huddled over their drawings, from their table, from their small world. No explanations, nothing. I cried, as I walked to find another seat and listened to their cackles, their laughter. No one showed any shame or remorse.
         It was then that I vowed never to let them see me crying again. I hardened to bossiness, to leading instead of being led. The following September I returned a different person.
         Survival depends on being stronger than they are. Strong enough to do what you believe in, even though others around might think you mad. My husband has let me so far do what I want without ever imagining what I plan to eventually carry through. I feel sorry for him but other things have to come first. It is far too late to change anything. I have to carry this through. Any day. Any day now.

At twenty-three I vowed to pick my men more carefully, to choose the lambs, not the monsters, the winsome, not the wicked. Yet unlike worms they were hard to avoid; I came across them wherever I went. What we have to do to find even the semblance of happiness. I heard so many of my friends say they'd hate to be a teenager again; having to go through the mournful lovesick period, the insecurity of face, smile and desirability. I took that further: I would hate to be a child again. I pitied children; they had so much hope, so much to look forward to, so much to learn about adulthood. We spend only a small proportion of our lives as children but what happens then affects our thinking forever.
         I decided then at twenty-three, that I, Sophie, being of sound mind, would never bring into this world other children to taunt, tease, be afraid as they grew into maturity, even if I found the right man. Any man who loved me would have to love my childlessness. It wasn’t an awful childhood; it’s just childhood itself that is the burden. Why have it?

But then the big 3-0 came upon me and my body became a traitor. Ironic that it should be my body that betrayed me rather than the man I married. He wasn't bothered either way. Some men are like that; not everyone is child-obsessed. He accepted my views with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders. I have this image of him returning to his newspaper after I announced my intentions, a reaction that convinced me that after our vows he wouldn't change his mind. But as time went on I began to see my body in its beautifully inviolable state as a waste; as not fulfilling some pre-ordained function; a walking, empty useless woman as I flushed the monthly symbol of my childlessness down the loo. My body ached for wholeness. Friends' children suddenly looked pretty and endearing and the bringer of immense happiness where before they were just devils in angelic guise. I would hold them in my arms and feel their dependency, their love for their mother. I longed to be needed like that, where you knew you had their complete trust, their faithful love. As I held their children in my arms I could imagine a love like no man could give. A love for which you didn't have to dress up in high heels, short skirts and a bright ever-open mouth. A love that could not fail through verbal misunderstandings. With that love a child could be taught, shown, encouraged, led away from the cruelty that I associated with childhood. I wondered where that love had gone in my own youth, why I no longer loved my own mother with such devotion. Why should it have changed? At what moment did I, as a child, realize I no longer needed my mother, and my love slipped away to take its place behind a façade of self-possession?

My first miscarriage was two years ago. I had been getting used to the sickness, the bloated feelings, the idea that my body had been invaded by something I couldn't see, couldn't control. I was trying to have a smiley, stress-free pregnancy without considering myself an invalid, a vessel to bring another human into the world.
         The day it happened I was walking down our street on the way to the shops to buy yet more fruit. I was three months pregnant. By the time I saw our small terraced house again with its pine furniture, delicate fabrics, subtle colours, my baby had flooded out of me and was labelled clinical waste.
         I had stopped to watch some children playing football in the street, kicking a ball across the street, bright colours dirtied by countless falls on the dusty tarmac. A car came down the road too fast and for a split second I thought the small kid scrabbling to the edge of the road would be run over. All I remember is shouting "Oh, run, run." I stepped forward and slipped. The car missed me but the pains had begun.
         I couldn't believe it had happened. It didn't floor me. I vowed not to be put off; I would try again.

My second miscarriage occurred last year. I spent three months not going outside for fear of seeing children playing in the street, happy pregnant mothers, huge shapes taking up space in the bus. I feared another accident. I molly-coddled myself. This time I would bring that child into the world.
         But it wasn't to be. The child refused to be born; it trickled out of me as I stood at the top of the stairs clutching my belly.

I'm due any day now. Any day now.
         The first five months of my third pregnancy I stayed in the house, mainly in my bed. No way would I risk this child. The doctor threatened to forbid me trying for more children if this one failed. In bed I surrounded myself with health and pregnancy magazines, making sure I was supplied with a constant supply of water, fruit. My husband turned out to be a wonderful nurse. He never complained. At night he would comb my long auburn hair with such care, combing it out so that it hung sensually past my elbows. I do feel a twinge of guilt when I dream about the future. He doesn’t really deserve this. He has treated me with the best of care, even though I am now wearing out his patience.
         It was while in bed that I read the newspaper report on the group of children who'd terrorised an old woman to death by ringing her phone at all hours, throwing shit and litter through her letter box, taunting her on the street. Eventually her heart had been frightened to death, as she stood surrounded by ten-year-old terrorists. I felt her fear, I imagined those young faces, so unthinking, circling her like vultures, stealing her purse, her miserly groceries. I saw her fall to the floor as her heart reached breaking point. I imagined them running away, suddenly afraid of what they had done.
         I tried not to let it bother me. These were isolated children, I rationalised, children from poor homes who didn't know any better. Not all children were capable of this. What had happened was splashed all over the papers, so I stopped reading them and took to watching only comedy or old films on the TV, which was where I saw Lord of the Flies for the first time. I was sitting with my feet up on the sofa with Anna, a nine-year-old child who belongs to my neighbour. She had come in a lot to help me. Her excitement at the approaching birth had exceeded mine. By this time I was fearful of the birth while looking forward to resuming myself again. I gave no real thought to the child growing inside. Both Anna and I watched the film in fascination. It was easy to see boys reverting to primitivism. I thought at the time, if any girls had been on the island the situation would never have happened. I had faith in girls.
         Anna surprised me by sharing the frenzy of the dancing tribes, dancing around the room mimicking the film cries: 'Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!' and exulting in the death of Piggy. Her face was one of pure, greusome enjoyment as Piggy lay twitching. I watched this sudden primitive with growing unease.
         Suddenly she came up to me and said: 'Of course I'll babysit for you when the little one comes along.'
         She'd said this before and I'd been pleased to see her cheerful, honest face. Here was a pure child, I thought. She had one of those sweet angelic faces that looked as innocent as when she was born. Long dark, slightly wavy hair that her mother tied up in bows, and big brown eyes. Her mother kept telling me how Anna helped around the house and was a joy to have.
         When Anna said this to me I felt my heart stop. I let her out of my house and watched her cross the road, joining a small group of boys and girls. She spoke animatedly and suddenly began to dance around; showing her friends the same frenzied movements she had shown in my house. I drew away from the window and touched my huge belly. The child inside knew nothing of the outside world. She would come into it bald, untouched by images, unsullied by words, uncorrupted by the selfishness of others. I wanted to cry. Could this child too turn into a monster?
         The next day I watched the street again. The group was bigger. Children from neighbouring roads congregated in our street. In one of the children's arms was a white cat. Small hands stroked its fur. Five pairs of hands brushing its fur up and down. They seemed hypnotised. The child who held the cat grabbed hold of its tail and let the animal's body drop. The cat squealed and scratched at thin air to get away. The children laughed as the boy holding the tail began to gently swing the screaming cat around his body. Around and around. I could see Anna laughing, jumping up and down, clapping her hands together.
         I closed the curtains.

From that day to this I haven't opened the curtains to the front. My husband puts up with it as a symptom of a woman going slightly mad with pregnancy. He hopes that once the child is born I will regain myself. I’m not so sure.
         Now I sit in my home waiting for my child to appear. I make plans. I have taken the bell from my door. I see no one, especially not children. I walk the garden at night, feeling the cool breeze wrap itself around the shape of my child. I wear a long floaty dress. I would like to walk naked but I can't risk drawing attention to myself.
         I have stopped seeing friends, going to the gym, swimming. No one comes to the house. This near-empty house is all I need. Once it was filled with beautiful things. I took pride in our first home, spending all of my husband's money on cushions and pictures. Fresh flowers.
         I no longer go shopping. And I don't watch television. It's dangerous. I know they think me mad. And I have considered it to be true but I know that this is not madness. I have a rationale; I have a pure crystal insight into the craziness of growing up and I will do anything to spare my child that trauma. She will not become Anna! She will not become me!

I'm not going to be here much longer; I can't afford to. I can't afford for my child to become infected by the children of the road. At first I shall keep her in, even when she's older. I won't go walking to the shops pushing the pram, exposing her to the stupidity of others, the threat of disease, wherever we are. I shall keep my child at home; I shall be her playmate, her teacher and all her friends rolled into one. My husband will find us gone one day when he comes home from work. One day when she is about eighteen months old. He will come home as usual at 6 p.m., switch on the early evening news in the dining room that he has converted to his den. He never greets me. I am nothing to him, though maybe he will call for the child. Once we couldn't bear to be apart, once we would never part without some gesture of affection. He will sit in his den surrounded by the furniture I moved out of my bedroom, and chucked out of the living room. Facing the garden, his den is the only room in the house with open curtains. The rest of the house is shrouded. He will wait and then he’ll notice the silence.
         It is either live like this or do something far worse. He thinks I am capable of something worse.

We, my child and I, will go deep into the mountains of Wales or Scotland, find an island without children, or cross continents in search of remote peace. I think I would die rather than see my unborn child suffer the coldness of childhood, or for me to lose her love as she grows into puberty. There has to be somewhere remote enough for us to live where my child can stay as pure as when she was born.
         There she goes kicking me. Already our relationship has begun with cruelty.

Jai Clare lives in Cornwall, UK. her short fiction has appeared or will be shortly appearing in The Barcelona Review, Zoetrope All-Story Extra, NightTrain, Winedark Sea, The Storyville Anthology, Absinthe Literary Review, Redsine, QWF, Literary Potpourri, In Posse Review, Buzzwords, and Voyage Magazine. She was also All Story Extra Guest Editor for December/January 2000/2001, and is allegedly agented for her novel, The Storyhouse, (long story!) and completing the first draft of a new one.