Punishments designed to break me psychologically and physically.
They had tried to destroy the baby by destroying me.
And still—
I had tried to protect it.
I had failed.
Therapy in New York might stitch together the surface damage.
Doctors could treat the infections still burning low in my pelvis.
They could repair tissue.
Monitor my body.
Stabilize the physical aftermath.
But this?
This grief? This guilt?
No session. No medication. No comforting words whispered by professionals.
None of it could reach deep enough to erase what happened.
Some wounds don’t heal. They scar over.
Thick. Ugly. Permanent.
And you learn to live around the constant ache because there is no alternative.
The jet continued its smooth ascent.
The hum of the engines vibrated through my bones.
If I removed the hearing aid right now, thick silence would swallow the world around me.
Back in prison, silence had meant vulnerability.
It had meant not hearing footsteps approaching.
Not hearing guards unlocking doors.
Not hearing threats whispered behind my back.
Before prison, my hearing had never been completely gone.
I had always caught fragments.
Laughter.
Arguments.
Music playing softly in the house.
I had been able to force words out—even if they came out hoarse or broken.
