"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." — Ernest Hemingway

Baby, No More

Blood drips onto her thighs; her eyes glowed. She fell down a few times but she swore somebody pushed her. All kinds of red: maroon, bright, even dark purple mingled down to her knee.

She grabs an inch of her flesh from her womb and grinds it until the sliminess dissolved into liquid. How could she tell him now? She couldn’t handle another episode of his panic attack.

Her legs crooked, the pain started to kick in. Wailing, no one could hear her. Tears streamed down like the first snow falling during early winter. Her blue dress ruined, she kept screaming.

Note: Feature image above is found in Oklahoma.

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