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Melissa sat alone in her room staring at a positive pregnancy test. By that point, she says, “I kind of already knew.” Her period was late, she was nauseated, her boobs were sensitive. “Obviously the condom broke. Obviously the Plan B didn’t work.”
**Warning, this post contains explicit material**
“On Monday we had sex in the parking lot in my vehicle. We texted about it on Tuesday. He didn’t erase the messages, which is rule number one when you’re being shady.
Wednesday at 1am, my phone started ringing.
The blood won’t stop. It’s beginning to pool on the bathroom floor beneath her, slowly seeping into the grout. Her husband, Marshall crouches close, a phone pressed against his ear, “She won’t wake up,” he clamors. “The blood isn’t stopping and she won’t wake up!”
Marshall’s wife, Loi, is hemorrhaging - bleeding out on their bathroom floor.
It was midmorning on the Friday after Halloween in 2017 when Jen called me. She wasn’t crying, not really. Instead her voice was thick with fear, panic and utter exhaustion.
Carly, I want to die. Carly, I think I’m going to kill myself.
Lily lies on the hospital bed, her back arched in agony, her pregnant belly supported by pillows, eyes closed, fists clenched against the source of her pain – a gallbladder full of sludge that doctors can’t remove for fear of hurting her unborn son. They’re late with the pain medication again.