Motherhood by Devin Allen (read after TXT) 📖

She lay flat on the uncomfortable lump of a bed, barren and lonely, staring out the window whose blinds had been snapped to a decisive shut. She tried not to think of umbilical cords and fetal heartbeats. The room was dark and on the white-specked ceiling tiles, shadows played back memories, like miniature horror films.

The coo of a newborn seeped through the paper-thin wall of her cell from the next room over and she shuddered lightly, wanting to ball up but finding a knife of pain sear through her thighs and stick directly into her abdomen, twisting around in its dank emptiness and wrapping her insides around its heated, cruel blade.

Her fingertips curled against the sheets that smelled like sweat and she bit her lip, closing her raw eyelids and feeling the sting of tears flood across her eyes. her arms felt heavy and empty. There was a rocking chair in the corner of the room, and it sat laughing at her. Someone had sent her flowers, and they too mocked her from their roost on the bedside table, next to a face down picture of an old sonogram, wrinkled and loved.

The stretchmarks on her deflated belly weaved a sad sob story and she rolled onto her side, away from the window to stare blankly at the door, closed shut and sealing her into her torture chamber. The beep-beep of unimportant and useless telemetry echoed thickly in her ears, a steady and intrusive sound, and her sobs thrummed out a familiar squall as her mind swam in black ink as she tried not to think of umbilical cords and fetal heartbeats.

Publication Date: 12-22-2009

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