Gone before it ever had a chance to live.
Tears streamed down my face.
I sobbed without sound. My wrists were still cuffed to the rails.
I strained against the restraints as if I could force them to hand the baby back to me.
Harlan leaned closer.
Close enough that I could smell coffee and cheap cologne on his breath.
“Told you it wouldn’t make it,” he whispered.
His mouth curved into a slow, triumphant smirk.
“Should’ve listened.”
He enjoyed it.
He enjoyed watching my hope collapse.
They took the body away before I could even touch it.
Before I could kiss its forehead. Before I could memorize its features.
I lay there for hours afterward.
Bleeding. Empty. Useless.
Staring at the ceiling while my body shook from shock and loss.
Part of me wanted to die in that room.
Part of me wished the bleeding would just continue until everything inside me went dark.
But I didn’t die.
I survived.
And that survival felt like punishment.
That wound never closed.
It festered.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that tiny face.
Perfect except for the stillness.
Perfect except for the absence of breath.
I had carried that child through eight months of hell.
Starvation that left me so weak I could barely stand.
Beatings that cracked ribs and bruised organs.
Thirst that made my tongue swell and my lips split.
