Kautsar Abd Rahman

The stab of guilt everytime I see Monica selling Big Issue by the station makes my stomach clench.

I am so unequipped in this country.

I cannot bear being nice to her again, making promise I cannot keep, only to realize it will not work out.

She sensed it. She sensed my distance and aloofness when she tried to hug me in public.

I hugged her back half-heartedly, unlike the protective hug we used to share.

I asked her of her baby, she is pregnant again.

She said the baby is bleeding, watering. I could not really understand her.

I told her I will come with clothes. I went home, I cannot find the winter coat I kept for her. Instead, I took a plastic bag full of clothes I was about to give away. They were not as nice as the clothes I wanted to give her but had misplaced it in the store.

I feel guilty again. I didn’t want to give her these clothes, I have got nicer ones for her. But I cannot find it, and I have promised to see her.

I saw her sitting on a small plastic stool outside the great British library. Heavily pregnant, clearly holding in pain while selling her magazines.

I asked her how she is. She answered her baby is bleeding, watering. She might go to hospital but don’t know when because she can’t afford to waste time in it.

I kept quiet. I could not even offer any word of condolences. I felt like shooting myself point blank. I nodded.

She didn’t try to hug me, she sensed my hostility.

I put the plastic bag of clothes next to her. She looked at me, and nodded thank you.

I walked away, saying I will see you again, I hope.

I went inside the red bus, tapping my paid-for travel card, listening to my I pod, clutching my notebook laptop, ready for a class at the world-class university in the heart of London, with Starbucks coffee on my mind.

My heart beats to sickening pulse. Exuding poison into my bloodstream. My chest a dull ache. I have been so busy, so lost in my own thoughts, life and shit that I forget people who are in need. I forgot Monica. Worse, I want to get away from her. I felt like puking and crying at the same time.

I will try talk to Jessica, my Amnesty president, if she knows of anything that could be of help to someone like Monica.