No, not damp. Wet. Sticky.
Oh, God. No. Please, God, not again . . .
But even as I form the desperate prayer, another cramp has me doubling over, instinctively bringing my knees to my chest as a sob ripples up my chest and tears from my throat.
It’s not until I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my heart pounding against my ribs, and rise to my feet that panic really settles in. With sweat beading over my brows, my head tilts down as my eyes imagine the color of the liquid I can feel trailing down my legs.
Maybe it’s not what I think. Maybe I just wet myself.
I did drink a lot of water before going to sleep . . .
But that’s the thing about hope. It’s the tiny flame we keep burning in our hearts before reality snuffs it out.
Fingers brushing the wall, the feel of textured paint reminding me that I’m awake and that this is not a dream, I slowly trek toward the bathroom. It feels a thousand miles away.
My hand fumbles for the light switch, trembling so violently I can barely flip it on. And when I finally do, the harsh fluorescent light assaults my vision like needles jabbing my eyes. I squeeze them shut, giving myself a chance to prolong the inevitability of reopening them and facing my worst fear.
And my world tilts when I finally do.
Red.
So much red.
Bright, thick, and so, so very wrong.
It’s soaked through my pajama pants. They’re the ones Patton brought me last Christmas, with pale yellow daffodils and sunflowers that reminded me of the bouquet I held when I walked down the aisle toward him four years ago, the same flowers woven into my hair.
We knew we were young and inexperienced, but God, there wasn’t anything we wanted more than each other. It didn’t matter that his foster parents were skeptical, or that my dad was reluctant, asking me if I was really ready to get married so young.
I knew.
I’d found my person—my best friend apart from my sister—and no one on this earth could have deterred me from being with him.
I blink as the memories fade behind the color now saturating all others.
“No,” I whisper, the word barely audible over the ringing in my ears. My nose tingles and my eyes blur as the full weight of what I’m looking at crashes over me. Then louder, like saying it with more authority might undo what’s clearly being taken away from me. “No!”
Another cramp seizes me as I grasp the doorframe, my other hand wrapping protectively around my abdomen, as if I can physically keep my womb intact.
I shake my head, repeating the only word I can seem to speak. My back hits the wall, and the weight of the moment drags me down to the cold marble. I stare down at the blood-soaked fabric, watching it seep and spread, much like the ache unfurling in my chest, devouring the sunny color.
Leaving only the color of war behind.
The cramping intensifies, forcing me to pull my knees to my chest. I wrap my arms around them, rocking as tears soak my cheeks.
Thirteen weeks.
A life we fought to have, to bring into the world, gone in thirteen weeks. A baby we wanted and imagined every day for thirteen weeks . . .
All the plans and dreams, hopes for our future little family, are now bleeding out of me on the cold bathroom floor.
“Please,” I whisper to the empty room, to God and the universe, to anyone listening. “Please don’t take this away from me . . . not again.”
But despite my pleading, it’s happening.
The life I was carrying, protecting, and loving—the one my body went through immeasurable pain to create and hold, the one I constantly prayed for—is slipping away like the fuzzy afterthoughts of a dream.
I reach for my phone—I hadn’t realized I’d carried it with me—calling for the only voice I want to hear right now. The only voice who’ll understand.
