Her Birth

Three days have passed now since I first woke up with that cursed pain in my back. It was sharp, like I was being stabbed constantly but under my skin. Despite this, I got up from bed and put on my slippers. That’s when I felt something sticky stuck on the soft sole, and when I checked, there was some kind of squashed bug. A giant, grayish stain on the fabric, along with bits of what seemed like an insect.

I brushed it off and cleaned the poor slipper. I couldn't even remember when that could’ve happened— I had fumigated the apartment just two days before. Regardless, I foolishly ignored it, storing it away to the back of my mind.

I went to work, and the pain had dulled out slightly by then. But it was still there, pecking at me. Enough to hurt, but not enough to leave everything and go home. It was frustrating more than painful, and I found myself wishing for it to worsen so I could go and sleep it off.

When I arrived home, I dropped onto the soft mattress. As I drifted to sleep, I thought I laughed. Now I understand that the cackle didn’t come from my lips.

The next day was the last one of normalcy. Of course the pain was still there, and so much worse than I remembered. I could barely get up, and my slippers were left forgotten. I tried taking a shower, but the water hurt my skin. It weighted me down, like oil being poured on me.

I caught a glimpse of my face through the foggy mirror. I seemed pale, but I was too stuck up to actually check. It was just another day.

A few hours later, I went home without clocking out for the first time in my life. My back burned like hell, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. But I scolded myself, told the white face on the mirror to take a hold of himself.

I felt like a corpse, and looked like one as well. I couldn’t help but wonder if I was going crazy. If all the stress from everyday life had finally gotten to me. The monotony of it all.

I didn’t get to dwell on it much, for soon I was gone— fast asleep on the bathroom floor. I didn’t even process it. I woke up to the sound of a sharp breath. When I checked the clock, it was way too late to go to work. It was almost three in the afternoon.

I didn’t have breakfast. I didn’t go to work. I didn’t have lunch or showered.

As I walked aimlessly down the halls of my small apartment, I froze. But not by my own will.

The pain surged louder, and I groaned as I grasped my back.

It was quiet. I felt a sudden urge to call out for some reason, as if I were to check if someone was there.

Then, I heard it. A raspy, barely eligible voice of a young woman.

I didn’t understand the words, for they were too quiet, but the moment my mind registered the sound, I froze. My hands were trembling violently, and I shook my head despite being completely alone.

The fact that I didn't even know what she said horrified me even more. If I would’ve listened a little closer, maybe I could’ve prevented everything. What if it was a warning? A threat?

A promise?

That time, I wanted to reply. The terror overwhelmed me, so much that no words came out.

Instead, I ran to the bathroom and vomited, before passing out.

I had a strange dream of a butterfly being born, emerging from it’s cocoon. When I woke up, the pain hit me again like a sack of bricks.

I felt her picking at the bumps of my backbone. The pressure of her nimble fingers sent searing pain all throughout my body. And each nail felt like a needle aiming right to my nervous system.

That’s when I finally decided to go to the doctor. I knew it was long overdue, but I already recognized myself to be as stubborn as a mule.

I was desperate. I needed to know who she was.

I don’t remember even driving to the doctor’s office. I don’t remember most of the time I spent outside. All the strength my mind had left went to carve down each agonizing second of when I was home. When I was alone with her.

“Here we go with a new debut album by a one Doris Day, a song called ‘You Go to My Head’—” I turned off the radio.

There was enough noise coming from inside me. The scratching of bones like nails on a chalkboard. The gushing and squelching of my intensities as she got comfortable. As she hid away.

“I don’t see anything wrong,” the doctor said after a moment. “You seem just fine. Take some Waterbury’s compound.”

I would’ve slammed the door behind me, but when I returned home I could barely grasp the handle. Then, my legs turned rigid like stone, and I didn’t even realize I had fallen to my knees. Before, I thought the sensation in my back was truly aching. But in that moment, I felt what real pain was like. A raw scream erupted from my mouth, uninvited and intrusive— just like her.

I cried out, I yelled in anger and sobbed like a child. But nobody came.

The tearing of my skin got so intense that I went numb altogether. There was so much happening that it overwhelmed me into some sort of self-sedation. Maybe it was my body giving up on me, and letting me have a few seconds of freedom.

Then, I jolted at a loud thump. Or at least I thought I had twitched a little, but I realized I was lying on the floor, and the sound came from my broken body.

It was my wide open back, my pulled apart ribs.

I watched in awe as something flew above me, wings buzzing like a cockroach.

It was her, in all her glory.

And in all of my foolishness, I thought she was just beautiful.