#kjnk | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lydiamoved · 5 years ago

Photo

I know I’ve already spoken about it, but I wanted to post the entire thing!! it’s 5.6k words, and the first short story i’ve finished!

“What Mira Bore” is a speculative work that follows a young woman on her three trimesters of a pregnancy that is not all what it seems. It focuses on Mira, who carries a baby that may not be a baby, and who feels so sick it’s almost sweet.

In the beginning, the vomit flowed from her mouth like a yellow-green ocean. It slipped from between her lips and stained the edges of her teeth, the tip of her tongue, and touched - almost tenderly - the white rim of her toilet. In the beginning, her back pressed against the bathroom wall and her chest heaved, one arm pressed against her barely-showing stomach until she was forced to push herself back up on both elbows and knock her chin against the white rim and heave, and heave, and heave. In the beginning her throat was filled with bile mixed with leftover food that became lodged, and tints of red in-between. But Mira still called it lovely, still called it a miracle, despite the burning in the back of her throat and the tears that stung her eyes. “This sweetness is temporary,” she’d say to her husband, to anyone who would ask her how she was doing, as if the delicacy of her condition proved itself to change her. “This sweetness is temporary, it’s just for a moment,” and she would wipe the corners of her mouth with her fingers, wipe her fingers on the corner of her shirt, and smile.

Nothing rested easy in her stomach anymore, though she just called it a case of the jitters. A little pre-labor nervousness, she said. No one believed her, not when her French toast breakfast threatened to pull itself back from the lining of her stomach; not when she began to spend more hours behind a locked door, her legs swung over the bathtub and the rug soaked through with eggshell white and orange chunks. She spoke between coughs and chokes, a little smile from here to there, a little giggle that would escape and find itself lodged between her lungs and lips. Her hand would press itself to the corners of her mouth, wipe gently until her fingernails were full of yellow and white and stuck together, and she would smile widely for her teeth to show. “It’s all fine,” she would say, and her voice would falter just a bit, just enough to linger on the final syllable and tilt her head, the pupils of her eyes going unfocused for those few seconds. “It’s all fine, it’s all fine, it’s all fine.”

Words stumbled from her lips in an off fashion. Every Sunday, she had fallen into a routine –– something that, she claimed, granted her relief from the beautiful, beautiful creature inside her. Mira sat herself at the head of the dinner table, one hand rested on the wood, all five fingers digging and shavings piling behind the nail. She rested her left hand on her stomach. Pulled the fabric of her dress around the lump tight and squeezed, her fingers tap, tap, tapping where her bellybutton resided. Inside, her parasite – her beautiful, angelic, glorious parasite – kicked at her inner flesh with recently developed feet (her husband asked, is this possible? it grows so quickly, is this possible? she only hushed him.), scraped at her walls with nails that felt like razors inside her belly. It begged to be released, begged for something other than the distilled blood that it swam around. Mira could feel it swimming within her and turning around, backwards, forwards. Mira could feel it, with love, with joy, with terror, and it ached within her. The parasite spawned itself from her blood and bones, attached itself by digging stubs of nails into the cavity of her walls and made a home in the pit of her uterus. Mira stumbled on her words, syllables fragmented and falling from her lips in an off fashion. She dug her fingers into the dinner table’s wood, into the skin of her stomach, until wood shavings and blood flooded the nails alike. There was still, as always, a tenderness in the way she pressed her fingers into the table, a sweetness in the way her lips curled upwards even as the tips of her fingers threatened to burst with the pressure she applied. Her lips split open, her cheeks bursting with red, and she stared at the table, at her fingertips.

Her husband sat beside her, his hand to cover hers, his lips to speak nothing but soothing messages underneath his breath. “You’re okay,” he would promise, once, twice, thrice. “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.” And she would smile harder, a sweetness in the back of her throat as she promised that the pushing against her stomach was temporary. Her jaw would unhinge itself and the words would fall onto the table in a slurred mess, the s’s blending with her t’s, her vowels rounding with her mouth and consonants sharp as they fell from her tongue. She spoke and her mouth would seem to get wider, her teeth pushing themselves back into her gums, and the baby in her stomach would press its’ feet back into the walls of her uterus, each kick more painful, more apparent than the last. Her body became unstable with each jab of pain, though the soft sting of her teeth in her tongue soothed her. The feeling of her teeth clattering together with each syllable that pushed itself forwards, with each hard press her fingertips gave to the peeling wood on the table.

Her husband sat beside her, his fingers to tap on the brown of her free hand, his mouth to stumble on words that never quite make it out from his throat, to remind her that I am here, I am present. She had stopped listening hours ago. He knew this. He was aware of this, albeit painfully; and yet he still watched over her. He still watched and waited, held and tapped.

Then finally she stopped.

Her hand lifted itself from the table, wood peelings dropping themselves from under her nails. Her lips went still, her mouth silent. Her eyes went wide, still unfocused and glassy in their gaze, and the grip on her stomach loosened. She waited, or seemed to. Her head lifted and turned to her husband, and she watched him, and saw him, or seemed to. Her lips curled into a smile. Kind and tender, almost innocent in its’ appearance. Her hand lifted from her stomach and pressed against his cheek, and her smile seemed to grow wider.

“Wouldn’t you agree with me?” She began, her words quick to catch onto each other’s ends. Her hand pressed a little harder, the wood-filled nails digging into his cheek. “Wouldn’t you agree with me? It’s so sweet, it’s so sweet, it’s so sweet.” Mira sighed and her head shook, her second hand going to cradle his other cheek, her nails digging into the side of his face. His cheeks turned pink, almost red, and her grip became tighter. Her fingertips all but disappeared into his skin, a trail of blood threatening to spill from in front of his ears. “Wouldn’t you agree with me?” She repeated herself, a little quieter this time, the syllables a little slower to leave her mouth. And he gripped her hands in his, pulled her talons from his face and folded her fingers to her palm.

He stood quickly, moved from his place, and left her alone.

In the beginning, the days began to bleed together. The table had been replaced twice, the wood continually stripped from its’ surface and yellow bile continually dripping down one of its’ leg in a steady stream. Mira’s mouth continued to move, in both sleep and wake, and she mumbled to herself, to anyone who would listen. The vomit came from her throat in ropes, in rivers that refused to stop flowing, and quickly the bathroom’s floor became a second home for her. She sat on her legs, hands pressing themselves into her knees as she heaved with a smile permanent to her face. She waited, and waited, then bent over and retched. The toilet clogged once, twice, and her hand plunged itself into the murky water to push everything down its’ drain. The miracle within her, still, kicked at the walls of her uterus. Its’ foot poked and prodded, the skin of her stomach lifting and settling every few moments, a bump appearing here, disappearing and reappearing there. She called it a blessing, her husband called it a curse, and she would frown deeply, for the moment.

“I think you should be careful, dear.” And then she would bend over and retch, a breath heaved between each gag, another variation of be careful muttered whenever she got the chance to speak. “I think you should be careful, dear. It’s all fine, this sweetness shouldn’t be ruined. Let’s not ruin it, let’s not – let’s not… ruin it, dear.” She sputtered over her words, her chin to rest on the white toilet rim, her heart to pound almost audibly within her chest. But she would still smile, kind and tender, her hand to caress the disappearing and reappearing bump on her stomach.

Her sweetness was transitional, taken away from her husband and given, exclusively, to what grew inside of her. She sat at the head of the dining table once more, her fingers tapping on the surface of the second-replaced wood and watched (or seemed to) the wall ahead of her. In the beginning, food was scarce to enter her body. As her stomach became bigger, she nibbled on loaves of bread and drank water in small sips, then pushed her plate away as if she – or her baby – was full from almost nothing. Her husband would protest, and she would refuse. She would move from her spot at the table, her hands bracing themselves on its’ surface, and frown. At him, at the floor, at anything her eyes set on. Her frown would grow deeper, her teeth quick to sink into her bottom lip. She muttered underneath her breath, her syllables losing their sweetness and being replaced with bile and venom. Brown irises went black, the sclera in her eyes gone a greyish color from their normal whiteness. Grunts made their way from the pit of her throat, towards him, towards the floor, through the tightness of her mouth. High pitched and sharp, they came through ground teeth and heavy breaths, her nails digging themselves once more into the table and filling themselves with shavings. Then, as if nothing had happened, she stopped. Straightened her back, cradled her growing stomach, and bared her teeth. Bared her teeth into something resembling a smile, something Cheshire-like that pulled her cheeks to her ears and wrinkled the corners of her lips.

Her husband’s stomach sank, then fizzled. His eyes watered. A second of calm passed, and he felt a rush of warmth pass through his throat, and bile filled his mouth, pressed itself to the corners and looked for an opening. He felt horror that started at the base of his spine and ached in his shoulder-blades, made his body feel heavy and sluggish stuck where it stood. Terrible and gruesome horror, that made his stomach flip and his throat convulse, that tasted ugly and tore at his vocal cords.

Mira watched him and smiled. Her fingers went around her stomach, her baby, and she smiled. She smiled while his eyes watered, while his cheeks bulged with sick and he moved backwards. His Adam’s apple throbbed as he swallowed the vile in his throat, and he gasped for freshness to clean the taste from his mouth. His eyes went wide, glassy with tears that remained in their place as if they, too, felt fear. His jaw hung slack, tongue pressed against the bottom of his mouth, and not even wind would leave past his lips. He felt that horror again –– that started at the base of his spine and ended where his mouth refused to close itself back, his heart quickening as she moved closer; he felt frozen, his eyes to meet hers and refuse to look away.

She spoke to him again, once he had finished gasping, once he had straightened his back and begun to look at her, to see her. She spoke to him again, words filled with sweetness, but still sounding, feeling like venom. “This will be over soon,” her voice came soft, her chin pulled downwards as if she spoke more to her baby and less to her husband. “It will be over soon, and we will know happiness. We will know happiness.”

The parasite had begun to solidify itself within five months of existing. Her stomach had grown, surely, and she had grown with it. Her legs had grown stout, the calves strong to support both her and the baby inside her, thighs worn and weary. Her skin tore in odd places, angry lines that resembled lightning bolts growing up her hips and to her navel, and her breasts hung low in her dresses, their nipples darkening and swelling. She had become acquainted and made friends with tenderness, as every press to her skin sent shocks through her body. At least, her husband said whenever she complained of the swelling in her ankles and wrists, at least the worst part is over. And she would agree with him, through gritted teeth whenever she stepped strangely on her foot, and pins – and – needles overlooked their ability to stop their panging in the base of her heels. The worst is over, and we will be happy. We will be happy.

The evening that her baby had solidified and grown to the size of a banana, she had affectionately called it such. This earned her a sharp kick to the inside of her tummy, bending her over from the waist. The baby curved within her, with feet that refused to stay still. Sections of her stomach lifted upwards, then dropped suddenly, as if it had surprised itself with the feeling of flesh on its’ toes. And then it kicked again, harder this time, and Mira jolted. She gasped loudly, her fingers gripping the arms of the old armchair that she usually rested in, and pushed herself downwards. Her knees hit the floor hard, and the husband was sure that dents would be left. The baby kicked again, its’ foot to fight against the inside of her stomach, and Mira ground her teeth. She sucked in air and her mouth filled, once more, with forced vomit. Tears stung the corners of her eyes and she heaved, bent over at the waist. And then her parasite calmed. A moment passed, a second before she sighed, happily, and stood back up to her feet. The pain in her stomach refused to subside, and she cradled her baby once more, her chin pressing to her chest, and smiled wide. Once more, words of praise spewed from her lips, sweet whispers of you’ve grown so strong and it’s almost over soon directed to the creature growing inside her. Her hands passed over her stomach once, twice, thrice, and she smiled.

The baby kicked her flesh throughout the night, quickly and suddenly, as if trying to make a statement. It was violent in the only way it knew how to be, and made a fuss in the only way it was able to. Unborn toes curled and flung outwards in the space it had, heel connecting with sensitive tissue that recoiled and bounced from liquidated flesh to something real, something tangible, and something that ached. Her stomach was sore. Both inside and out, it turned red with bruises that formed right below her belly button, purple splotches that appeared and spread and turned green – and – yellow, then black. Mira’s fingers curled around her stomach, pressed against the bruises that stung when she touched them, and she lay there. Her fingers clutched, and her eyes filled and spilled over with saltwater, but she lay there. The baby kicked again, and her abdomen rose from the bed and fell, quickly as if she were pushed upwards and pushed back down. Again, the baby kicked, and Mira was thrust into the air, and once more it happened. Three fresh bruises crowded around her navel and turned purple and then green and then yellow and black; and then she lay still. Her baby had calmed, then began to show a new kind of violence. Its’ fingers scraped against her walls, just as they had in the beginning, fresh nails to dig into flesh that bled and healed and bled, its’ begging more insistent. Mira began to abandon her bed, and soon she left her room altogether. Her husband found her in odd places, in odd positions: one night, she pressed herself into the kitchen pantry and sat on the cold floor, her legs drawn to her chest, her body rocking itself forwards and backwards while she mumbled promises to herself, to her baby. Tonight, while he slept soundly, she sat awake in the dining room. The lamp near the sofa, where she sat, was on. The bulb had exhausted itself, humming low and flickering every other second. Mira made an indent in the sofa, the green cotton meeting the edges of her silk blue nightgown, her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms swaddling them. She whispered to herself, same as she had done nights before: quickly-said swears and promises that were pointed downwards, as if her baby could hear it, as if her baby were listening.

Her whispering became more fevered, her voice becoming too accustomed to the way her throat forced it into higher pitches or deep octaves. She spoke quickly, sighing and heaving through the space between her knees, to the bump that she cradled with both arms and squeezed tight, sweet nothings of I love you, and, we’ll leave here. We’ll leave here and be happy. The lamp besides the sofa flickered out, then turned back on again. Its’ humming became sharp and disrupted, staggered between its’ light shining and blowing out. Mira whispered, then yelled –– her breath was ragged between her words, half-shrieked before returning back to her knees, her chin knocking against the bow on her nightgown. For a moment, she was calm. Still. Her voice reduced itself to whimpers, small and quiet, as if she was stifling herself. She gurgled syllables with her sobs, and her arms became slick with saltwater. Then her sobs transformed themselves into wails, thick and muggy with anguish that felt like rope stuffed down her throat and pulled back up, stuffed down and pulled back up; her face became wetter, faster. We’ll leave here, I promise, I promise, I do nothing but promise, she spoke to nobody and somebody at once. Her swears gained an octave, and she stood from the couch: her right foot to touch the floor first, then her left. Her nightgown straightening itself, now wrinkled and covered in patches. Her arms by her side, her stomach plump and ready to burst. We’ll leave here, and we’ll be happy, just you and me. Just you and me. Her hands crept to her belly, affection spouting through every touch of her fingertips, and she smiled. The corners of her mouth seemed to go past her cheeks, stretched too far that it didn’t fit. Her teeth peeked through her lips, white rows that bit into her bottom lip till they were stained with red. Her fingers tapped against her belly, then gripped the loose skin and pulled it tight, upwards, until her bellybutton stood upright. Her abdomen-skin tore silently, like paper pulled apart. Red filled the gap of skin and ruined her nightgown.

She walked to the middle of the room, whimpering, whispering, then wailing. Her feet stuck to the middle of the carpet and she swayed. Her chin tilted upwards, her hands rose from her belly and pressed against her heart, and her face turned euphoric: her eyes closed, her smile relaxed, and she sighed deeply. Her whimpering had stopped, was replaced with silence then gentle humming and the occasional utterance of My baby under her breath. The red in front of her gown grew larger, though she felt nothing. Her smile grew wider and her hand beat against her heart, one thump following another, and she swayed where her feet stuck.

In the darkness of her living room, she rose. The soft carpet beneath her feet turned to nothing, the ceiling becoming closer. She mumbled softly, “my baby, my sweet baby”, and her hands touched her heart, then went upwards, then touched back to her heart, touched her heart, went upwards, then touched her heart. She rose higher – touched her heart – and the lamp near the sofa flickered madly – went upwards – and she smiled widely and chanted to the air loudly – then touched her heart. Her head became closer to the ceiling, the light flickered, and the bulb shook in its’ holding. Her mouth opened wide, her teeth bare, and she spoke aloud: “My baby! My baby! My baby!” Her arms rose above her head and remained, and she sobbed her words, slurred over them and screamed, to the ceiling, to her parasite in her stomach –––––– and then, the light went out, a high pitched and soft ping! sounding as the bulb exploded. Mira found the floor once more, a thud announcing her fall. She pulled herself up and stood, her hands over her stomach like a protective case, and went to bed.

Mira’s sheets were covered in blood when she awoke. She inhaled copper and exhaled deep coughs that came from the bottom of her belly and ached her chest, a dull pain running through to her heart and past her ribcage. Mira turned her head to one side: the bed, except for her own side, was empty. She turned it to the other, and her husband sat at her side, his fingers gripping the white-turned-pink sheets near her side. The cover over her had been tossed to the side, her swollen belly on its’ own side, the under-flesh of it torn open. The wound was still fresh, something – something – pulsating beneath the layers of skin that bled and tore itself apart. Mira felt it: something tugging, something sharp clawing at her belly like a pack of fresh razors, like ten too-little fingernails scratching at the inside of her uterus and desperately crawling out of her womb. A dull pain began at her abdomen, then disappeared, then began again. She felt this, and she was still. Her eyes were wide, her lips frozen in a smile as she looked up at her husband, who looked down at her and waited. The wound leaked and her hands went to where the blood trickled slow from her belly, her finger beds made warm with liquid, the bedsheet underneath her covering in blood. She looked at her husband and watched him, or seemed to, and her face contorted in pain: slowly, starting with her eyes, that narrowed until they shut. Her lips turned upwards and downwards, a grimace and a grin both at once. Her body lifted itself from her side to her back, and she arched upwards. Her eyes sprung open, she gasped, and moaned low:

“Happiness is coming.”

III

The hospital room was bare, with naked walls, with a silence that was only interrupted by the beeping of technical equipment and a blue-and-white clad nurse. The gash on Mira’s stomach had grown larger, like the flesh had been stretched apart by force rather than squeezed back together. The bleeding had stopped but her skin was an angry red color, still tender to the touch. She sat in this white bed, in this white room, the stain underneath her no longer growing, but visible, the bedsheet crumbled between her fingers as she watched the husband’s face from where he sat across from her. Watched and waited, her eyes glassy and wide. She repeated herself, “happiness is coming,” and smiled – as if she expected for him to smile as well. As if she expected for him to put his lips to her bloody stomach and weep with joy. Her fingers tapped on her belly and it moved in response: a pointed bump pushed the skin upwards, then smoothed itself out again. She watched her husband and smiled and pressed down on her stomach. Then, she stopped. Her eyebrows furrowed and her grin disappeared. She gripped the bedsheet tighter. Her tongue poked from between her lips, frowning and pulled deep, and she shook her head, madly. “You’re not happy.” She spoke loudly, towards her husband, a disapproval deep in her throat. “You’re not happy, you don’t care for me.” Her voice wavered and she moaned, deep and low, her words faltering as they left her mouth. Her movements were quick, a hand to go over her stomach as if she were once again protecting it. “You’re not happy.” Her voice became stronger, angrier and she quickly brought her knees to her stomach, the blood running once more from the pressure, the sheet between her thighs and belly becoming coated in blood. “You’re not happy. You don’t care, you don’t care.” The words ran from her mouth faster than her lips moved. Her irises went black once more, her lips pulling downwards in a way that was too deep for her face, and she stared at him. She looked at her stomach, tender for a moment, her hand stroking the bump with love and affection that was reserved for it. “We want you to be happy. This is only…” She trailed off, a grunt to escape her lips, the tenderness of her rubbing turning rough. The angry line became angrier, and her fingernails dug into her skin, past the separated flesh and deeper through her abdomen. Her knuckles disappeared. The insides of her abdomen squished as she pushed, and red spilled past her hand and fell in squirts onto her sheet.

Her husband stood from his chair and rushed forwards, his hand shooting out to grab hers, to pull her fingers from within ––– her head snapped up, a smile on her face and her eyes wide. “I can feel him!” She announced, gleefully, and she pushed her hand further into her belly. She laughed, aloud, her breath quickening. Her husband reached to her side and pressed the red – flash button –– nurses flooded the room, an eruption of light blue scrubs and yelling voices that pushed Mira’s husband back and surrounded her bedside. Mira screamed, which then turned into sobs. A nurse pulled her hand from her stomach, her fingers bloodied, and the underside of her nails coated and clogged with red. Her hands were held away from her by two nurses, then another held up a syringe. Clear liquid and a silver needle met the backside of her hand, inserted through a tube and the syringes’ plunger was pushed down. White, hot liquid ran through her body, then a rush of cool. Mira lay back on her pillow, her body jerking upwards slowly before pulling itself back down, her hands secured by their wrists on either side of her. No one spoke as the nurses filed from the room. No one spoke after they had left. The hospital room was, once again, bare, with naked walls, with a silence that was only interrupted by the beeping of medical equipment and the hollowed-out cries that went past Mira’s lips.

The hours dragged by, feeling more like years than such short passages of time, and still she cried. Her moans filled the room to its’ brim until she choked on them, spittle dripping past her lips and making a pool on the bedsheet. She was worn, her skin broken out in sweats, droplets of wet covering her body. Her chest heaved and she sat upright, her breath ragged and mingled with sighs and whimpers, with noises of affection to the baby, calling it and cursing it, cursing the nurses, cursing her husband, her eyes squeezing shut, flinging open. She looked towards her husband, who stood away from her, his back flat against the bare wall, and sneered. She gathered spittle in her mouth and shot it at him. It missed, and she tried again, then coughed, loudly. Mira moved slow, as if her energy was drained. As if it was finally drained. The wound on her belly had been stitched up, the professional stitches looking crude by her pregnant belly bulged and threatened to break the thread. Her wrists, loosely bound to the metal bars on either side of her bed, shook in their restraints as she moved from one side to the other, tried to pull them from where they lay. Once more, Mira mumbled promises to her stomach, her fingers desperate in trying to caress the skin her baby lay underneath. She mumbled and cooed, and then she screamed. Low and deep, then rising from the back of her throat, she screamed, bending at her waist. She screamed, louder now, and her scream turned to a giggle, fast and high-pitched. The monitor besides her bed moved noisily, beeped quicker, madly, and once more a rush of blue ran past the doors to her room. Mira moved wildly in her bed, her arms thrashing on either side of her, and dull pain shot up from her abdomen, slow and then quick at once. A nurse yelled, “Contractions!” and Mira shook her head madly, then groaned and laughed. Her vision dimmed, then brightened again. The razor-sharp scrape against her uterus began again, and her head fell back onto her pillow, her back arching. The nurses moved quickly, pushing Mira’s bed from the room and into the hospitals’ hallway, yelling commands to anyone who stood in their way, anyone who pressed themselves against the walls and watched. Mira gripped the sides of her bed, her knuckles going pale, and her mouth opened wide in a silent scream. The pain began again, from abdomen to uterus, dull and then a sharp scrape upwards, and she laughed and smiled, the corners of her lips brought to her cheeks, her cheeks raising and hiding her eyes behind them. Her body shifted and shuffled from inside, the bones within her wrists and fingers slipping from their pieces and rubbing against her skin, threatening to break loose from their confinement. One nurse looked down at Mira; the woman’s eyes went wide, and she fell away from the bed, yellow bile gripping the hand that quickly pressed to her mouth.

Her bed was wheeled to another room, bigger and filled with more silvery things. The doctor stood in the middle of it, his hands gloved and a mask to cover the lower portion of his face. Within moments, Mira’s legs were propped up, her hands taking hold of her ankles. Her white gown was lifted, and she was told to “Push!”

She pushed, and the doctor moved forwards, his hands to lay on the top of her stomach. Mira’s mouth hung open, the remnants of a smile on her face, and the parasite inside her, that was hers and hers with joy, moved violently. A bump appeared – push! – and smoothed down – push! – and she felt nothing but sharp, happy pain. The movements of her chest quickened, and she heaved gleefully, giggled and let her head hang back. She pushed, and the doctor yelled, “We can see the head – keep going!” She pushed, and the skin on her thighs pulled tight against her muscles, the outline of her bones becoming visible before the skin broke, two thin strips peeling downwards from her hips and stopping right above her knee, the pink-white flesh underneath stinging as it met the cool air. She pushed, and as another sigh – happy, content – left from her lips, she closed her eyes and her fingers tightened around her ankles, her nails digging into the skin, blood running down her legs and past her thighs. She pushed and the skin between her shoulders split apart, the marrow pushing itself to one side and to the next. She pushed and a laugh burst from her mouth, from the pit of her stomach, from behind her teeth and tongue. The sound of screaming - all around her, all inside her - became blurred. between her legs burned and begged for some type of mercy, something sweeter than this pain, this burning that refused to take its’ leave. She giggled madly and tears ran down her cheeks. She screamed and her legs spread wider, the skin between them ripping apart. The doctor paused in his moving, his eyes wide, his mouth wider behind the light blue mask. He stepped back from between her thighs and his mask bulged, yellow spilling from its’ edges as he hunched over. The stench of bile mixed with the smell of blood, the smell of sweat and salt. The baby crowned, and the sting blurred and buzzed inside her head, between her legs. The doctor began to heave, his mask slipping from his yellow-stained cheeks.

And the next moments, Mira would remember, happened all at once: the baby slipped from between her legs, a river of red chunks following after, and she relaxed. Her fingers curled into her palm, the skin between them slicing itself open, and she sighed loudly. Her eyes closed and her body warmed itself, tingled from her ribcage to her toes. The baby - her baby - opened its’ mouth and screamed deep from its’ gut something loud and piercing, loud and shrieking, loud and laugh-like. And Mira felt at peace as her eyes fluttered opened and closed. Mira felt content as she felt her fingers go slick with blood, the skin from her knuckles peeling itself backwards.

She felt happy, felt happy, felt happy.

#writeblr #short story #black writers #writing community #kjnk i never do this n i might never again but .#uhm one day im going to edit this . but not today. not while i work on seven different pieces.#but yes. pls read it. its nice . i hope it's nice.#pls rb it too <3

74 notes · View notes