The Midwife’s Scream in the Prison Hospital
That morning, the prison hospital was cloaked in an eerie silence. No slamming doors echoed through the corridor, no angry voices rose from the cells—only a stillness so unnatural that it unsettled everyone on duty.
“Who’s scheduled today?” the duty nurse muttered, fanning out a stack of worn inmate files across the desk.
The midwife, an older woman whose tired eyes had seen decades of hardship, barely looked up. She had witnessed it all: mothers delivering babies in chains, cries that faded into silence, and tragedies too painful to record. Yet something about this day carried a weight she couldn’t shake.
“Inmate number 1462,” the nurse replied. “Labor could start any moment. She came from the east block a month ago. No family, no records, not even a medical history. She barely talks.”
The midwife raised a brow. “Barely?”
“She just nods. Doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Like she’s shut herself away from the world.”
Moments later, the heavy iron door creaked open. Inside the dim cell-turned-hospital room, a young woman lay on a narrow metal bed, hands clutching her swollen belly. Her face was pale, her hair tangled, and though she was about to give birth, she showed no fear, no pain—only a chilling calm, as if she had already surrendered to fate.
The midwife stepped closer.
“Hello,” she said softly. “I’ll stay with you through the delivery. May I examine you?”
The woman gave the faintest nod.
The midwife leaned in—and froze. Her eyes widened, her skin drained of color. A scream ripped from her throat.
“Call a priest—immediately! 😱😱”
Where the steady rhythm of a tiny heart should have been, there was only silence. She pressed again, desperate, but still nothing.
“I can’t hear a heartbeat,” she whispered.
The guards shifted uneasily. The tension grew heavier with each passing second.
Then, without warning, labor began. The contractions were strong, forcing action over fear. “Call a priest!” the midwife ordered. “If this child is stillborn, he must not leave in silence—only with prayer.”
The woman on the bed didn’t flinch. She only gripped the sheet tighter, her knuckles white.
And then—a sound. Faint at first, like a distant flutter. Then again, stronger. A heartbeat. Weak, irregular, but alive.
“It’s alive,” the midwife breathed.
What followed was a battle for every minute. The woman’s screams tore through the room, the guards held her down as waves of agony shook her body, and the midwife fought with all her skill to deliver the fragile life inside. Time itself seemed to hold its breath.
At last, after hours of struggle, a tiny squeak pierced the silence. First weak, then louder, stronger. A boy. Small, bluish, but breathing.
They rushed to give him oxygen, rubbing him until his chest lifted more steadily. Then, suddenly, the room filled with the sharp, desperate cry of a newborn fighting for life.
The midwife sagged with relief, wiping sweat from her brow. “Thank you, Lord…” she whispered.
For the first time since her transfer, the inmate raised her eyes. And through exhaustion, through sorrow, a fragile smile broke across her face.
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