Page 8 of Filthy Lies

A wild, irrational hope flares in my chest. Vince is coming. He’s hunting for me, systematically eliminating possibilities. It’s just a matter of time.

If I can hold on long enough…

The man passes something to the woman, then leaves. When he’s gone, she turns and approaches me with…

“What the fuck? Is that asyringe?” I shrink back against the wall.

“Something to slow labor. We need more time.”

“No!” I knock her hand away when it gets close. “You’re not giving me anything. I don’t know what’s in that.”

Her face hardens. “Don’t be stupid. This will help.”

“Helpyou, maybe. Not my baby.” I cradle my belly. “Nothing goes into my body unless a real doctor tells me what it is.”

She lunges for my arm, but I’m faster. Fueled by maternal instinct and sheer desperation, I grab her wrist and twist. The syringe goes clattering to the floor.

“Touch me again,” I snarl, “and I’ll make you regret it.”

Something in my eyes must convince her because she steps back, rubbing her wrist.

“Fine,” she spits. “Have it your way.”

The woman storms out, the door clanging shut behind her like a funeral bell.

Left alone, time bends and blurs and loses all meaning. Minutes pass, one so dull that my mind goes blank and the next rippling with so much pain that I lose the will to even scream anymore. It’s like that, high and low, black and white, boring and agonizing.

But beneath it, I find something.

A little kernel. A tiny, stubborn root.

Beneath the pain, there is power.

Beyond the suffering, I soar.

Maybe it’s because my body is doing exactly what it’s designed to do: bringing my child into the world against impossible odds.

The woman comes in every so often. Her frown turns down deeper and deeper with each visit. She keeps checking her watch, growing increasingly agitated. I hear raised voices outside the door. Arguments in Russian.

Something’s wrong. I can feel it—an intuition beyond the pain. My body is sending signals I can’t quite interpret, but they’re screamingdanger.

“I need to push,” I realize suddenly. “The baby’s coming now.”

“No!” She whirls toward me. “You must wait for the doctor!”

Right on cue, the door bursts open. A small, nervous-looking man hurries in carrying a medical bag.

“This is the woman?” he asks in accented English.

“Do you see any other fucking woman in labor, you idiot?” seethes the blond bitch.

Grumbling, the doctor kneels beside me, his hands shaking slightly as he pulls on gloves. His eyes meet mine, and I see genuine concern there.

“How long have you been in labor?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Hours?” I grip his forearm during another contraction. “Something feels wrong.”

He examines me quickly. His eyes flit too fast to seem confident. I wonder if he’s here voluntarily or if they’ve threatened him, too.

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