The Wretched Womb

At the door, I hesitate.

No, I want this. I’m done being doubled over in agony every month. No more blood and mess and embarrassment. Fool-proof birth control.

I sign the consent forms, confirming where I want it installed (abdomen; lower). This will allow me to take the wretched thing out whenever I need to.

The procedure is quick. The nurses wave me off with cheery smiles. I’m bandaged up, armed with painkiller prescriptions and aftercare leaflets.

Days later, when the symptoms begin, I open the nifty little door with a soft squelch and take out the offending article. Ahhhh! Relief! Liberation!

I hide the nasty, gooey thing away in a cupboard, telling myself to check on it in a few days.

That night, I can’t sleep. I toss and turn for hours, then decide to get a snack and some water, maybe read my book awhile. I walk past that cupboard. It’s wood, not glass, but I don’t need to see the bloody thing to know it’s there. I can feel it. Throbbing and twisting. Ugh. I could happily leave it there, or bury it miles away, or drop it into the ocean. How did I ever tolerate it inside me?

A week later, it lies limp and pale on a soggy towel. I pick it up, almost tender, as if forgiving it for its transgression and retrieving it from a time-out. I pop it back into its squishy red cave. I feel its relief, like a gasp and a sigh.

Oh! The convenience of it! The freedom! The choice! Isn’t that what all independent women want?

Then came the news: I couldn’t bear children. Angrier with her than ever, convinced she was to blame for the pain in my heart, I locked her in a drawer, determined to never again give her the privilege of being inside me.

It doesn’t help.

It took a while, but eventually I realise my mistake. My organs shift and tilt, re-filling the space, like they’re searching for their missing sister. At last, I retrieve Her, restore Her. Ahh, I am whole!

Accepting all parts of my Self, even when they’re mucky, painful or inconvenient, remains an ongoing project.

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Word count - 366

(NB. This excludes the title, subtitle, and authors note. I was having trouble saving the story on here, so I wrote it on Google Docs instead, and I think their word count is a little different.)

Submitted on Friday 20th September at 11:39AM

The story behind the story: I think the Poe-spiration is clear here! This stems from my stream of consciousness that I posted yesterday:

A Year of Stories: I'm writing (and submitting, here) a story every day this year. This continues my 264 daily microfiction story streak since 1st January. Please consider lending your support to the other creators on this madcap "a story every day" adventure. They're putting out excellent content every day! Rachel Deeming Gerard DiLeo

Thank you

Especially if you are one of the wonderful people who has been staunchly reading these daily scribbles since the start of the year. I see you, and appreciate you very much indeed! Thank you to those who leave feedback/comments. I will do my best to respond to each one and reciprocate the reads.

If you enjoyed this one, the very best compliment you can give me is to share it, or read another!

Here are a few more pieces, unconnected to this one, but on a similar theme:

And now for something completely different: another cracking poem from Brenton F!

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