Page 22 of Frost and Death
As I try to rise, my lower abdomen spasms, followed by a low rumbling.Great.
I hover my legs over the edge of my bed as I press myself upward. Yet as soon as my feet touch the ground, I shrivel from the twisting in my stomach.
A stream of bile eases up my throat as I brace a hand against the pain. I cover my mouth with my other hand, hoping to keep it down.
Groaning, I knew it was stupid to wish everything would go smoothly this week.
My bleeding is supposed to happen monthly, but it has become sporadic these past few years, creating difficulty in planning for its impending arrival. I am lucky if I get my cycle every three new moons. Thankfully, my first days didn’t involve much bleeding. Most of the time, I exhibit light spotting, and it’s not even the blood that bothers me.
It’s that the start of every cycle brings rigorous pain and nausea.
Every. Single. Time.
Unable to keep the bile down, I scramble to the chamber pot in the bathing room, applying pressure against my stomach. The cramping increases with each step.
I could alert a staff member for assistance and medicine through the string of bells, designed for a method of communication, but I barely make it in the privy before collapsing on the cold ground.
Reaching for the chamber pot, I empty my insides, and exhaustion weighs on me.
Ugh.
The chill of the marbled floor beneath grants me a brief reprieve before I proceed with emptying my stomach.Again.
Fuck, everything hurts.
The back of my eyes, my head, and Sweet Makers, my throat.
The invasion of nausea subsides, and I try to gather strength to move, but fatigue has the world spinning. Cold sweat beads down the sides of my face as I lay on my side, hugging my knees to my chest, my cheek resting against the tiled floor.
I can lie here until my energy comes back. Maybe at least till some of the pain is more manageable.
My eyes are heavy from exhaustion when the hinges on a door squeak.
That must be Betina.
Too exhausted to speak, I focus on her movements, the sound of her placing a platter on my vanity near my bathing chamber distracting my thoughts.
“Breakfast is on your vanity!” She shouts into the quiet of my bedchamber.
A few seconds pass, and her worried tone yanks me back to reality. “Tove?”
Voice scratchy, I call back, “In here.”
Pain erupts, and it takes everything in me to not scream.
It’s just a monthly bleeding, Tove. It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.
Footsteps inch closer to the bathing chamber, and I brace myself for discovery.
“Oh, just wait till you see the dress I picked out for you for tonight’s festivit—”
She cuts off with a scream, and I cringe, wincing in pain. Betina’s eyes widen as they survey me. She rushes to me and places a hand on my forehead.
“Oh, Sweet Makers, Tove! Are you alright?”
The coldness of her touch has me leaning in as I try to muster words. But my abdomen spasms again, punishing me for trying to relax.
I shrink inwardly when I meet her gaze.
