TW: c-section trauma

A shiny line crossed her lower abdomen, jagged and dark. The width varied, created by an uncertain scalpel. She dragged a finger along the uneven crease, her nail indenting further. The skin of her stomach seemed to push back, jarring her sliding finger, sticking every few millimeters. The scar felt fragile. Thin. As if it wouldn’t take much pressure to slice her open again. 

She shuddered at the memory, pulling away her shaking hand and her drifting thoughts. She moved it instead to rest on the swaddle of her sleeping baby and her surroundings came back into focus. She could feel the coarse park bench through her thin, flowing skirt. The sky was clear and the sun warmed the parts of her it hit through the fluffy deciduous branches, a slight breeze reminding the people it passed that it won’t be this warm for much longer. She took a deep breath, smelling the gyro place on the corner and soaking in the sounds of older children playing in the grass. She could feel their desperate hold on the summer. The growing wildness of children can never tame the passing of time. 

She glanced down at her baby, sound asleep in his tram, locked in place beside her. He had gotten so big already. Her other hand absently, gently, rubbed her stomach. She huffed at her automatic pull to engage with the moments of his birth. She felt drawn to her undoing, to the reminder of the day she was split open and ripped apart. There was no escaping these thoughts. There hadn’t been for months.

No one can prepare you for the moment your plans dissolve, where one minute you’re laying in a warm hospital bed, waiting patiently for the doctor to tell you it’s time to push so you can meet your beloved baby… then the next minute alarms are going off and you’re being rushed away on a rattling cart to a cold room, aware enough that something is not right, but not conscious enough to scream. Her reality had been ripped away from her so suddenly, just like her baby had been ripped from her womb. She remembered vaguely seeing her husband’s panicked face, the one where he thinks he’s being reassuring but there is clearly terror coming through his eyes.

She took a staggered deep breath, bringing herself to that park bench once again. Her fingers tapped the top of her thumb, alternating stimulus to ground her.

_Pointer–ring–middle–pinky, pointer–ring–middle–pinky. _

Her therapist had told her to take moments like these and delve into the emotion when she could, when she felt safe, to process the feeling instead of repressing it. The last, and only time, she had indulged so recklessly, her husband had found her curled up in a freezing bath, unable to remove herself from the water she had drawn hours prior. 

_Pointer–ring–middle–pinky, pointer–ring–middle–pinky. _

Her limbs had stopped responding after she revisited in her mind the surgery she never wanted to have, the sensation of her entire body going slack, of being dragged under involuntarily because her body had failed her and so medicine had to intervene, all the while mentally clawing toward a consciousness she would not obtain on her own. 

Pointer–ring–middle–pinky, pointer–ring–middle–pinky.

She had remembered the sound of her own pleading, her endless cries turned to shrieks, as she felt nearly every part of what happened to her body. No one else could recall this, of course, because she was unconscious on an operating table. Silent and unmoving.

Pointer–ring–middle–pinky, pointer–ring–middle–pinky.

She hadn’t slept for what felt like weeks, either due to having a newborn or the recurring night terrors that racked her entire being with a similar level of agony to the original event. Therapists and therapies, medications and treatments, were all a whirlwind as her husband desperately tried to find a wisp of the woman he married. Weeks of torment turned to months of hard work and healing. She was much better now.

Pointer–ring–middle–pinky, pointer–ring–middle–pinky. __

“An emergency c-section due to complications” they could not fully explain. Her eyelids fluttered as her fingers moved faster, the grip with her other hand tightening ever so slightly around the up and down of his steady, deep breathing. She took a moment to match his breaths until she could feel her heartbeat and fingers slow. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Once she felt stable, she gently settled both of her hands on the tops of her thighs, palms up, open and inviting to the energy of the light around her. She again grounded herself, rubbing her fingertips this time against the sleeve ends of her buttery soft sweater.

An abyss floated directly under her, threatening to swallow everything that might have once been her. But for now, she was again present, alive, and a mother.

She heard ‘I love you’ far more than the average human hears it in their lifetime. It was an occupational hazard, as a wedding coordinator. She sighed heavily as she set down a wooden container filled with bouncing ranunculus, layers of sweet peas, and varying heights of David Austin roses, all poking through variegated pittosporum and baby blue spiral eucalyptus. What a waste, she would think, turning away to clack her wedges across the hard, unforgiving floor.

Weddings tend to bring out the romance in even the hardest of hearts. Just not hers. After hundreds of weddings, she could discern quite well a couple and their relationship after a short observation. Whether they were at their very first wedding as a couple, if they’d only known each other a short while before, if it was set up by friends. Some were more obvious than others, like the ones in their honeymoon period, with the over the top attentiveness, the glassy eyes, and the fact they were always, always, touching each other. _Those couples are the worst, _she thought with a huff as she bent down to grab a fallen petal.

Some of the people she saw had been married for a longer time, years but not quite decades. They fell into three categories: tolerant of each other but only barely; outwardly hateful of each other in the most passive aggressive ways; and so in love but only because one of them didn’t know about the affair yet. Now, you might want to argue that there are more categories than that, there has to be! You’ve been married for 14 years and we love each other deeply, thank you very much! Yes, well, that’s very nice for you. Check the third option and receive my condolences with the fondest of regards.

That was simply par for the course, or so she would think as she put out more of the fresh flowers on the tables. She had to stop and move some of the other knick knacks around to make room for the arrangements. Today’s set up had some gold painted books no one would ever read and resin printed mushrooms, probably to allude to the extra curricular activity that today’s couple preferred. She wondered what kind of couple they would be. Would their love last a lifetime? Would it at least last the day?

You could just hear it with most couples: the cold way an ‘I love you’ comes through their lips, as if they’re not professing a deeply cultivated feeling, but a reminder to the two of them that there has to be love in this relationship or else, damnit. She paused to straighten a knife that had been laid askew by an untrained set up crew. Rolling her eyes, she went back to her cart to grab another couple arrangements.

Some couples were married longer still, with decades of time to grow tired of each other, or even more in love. They either gave up entirely on the hateful feelings, passive aggressive tendencies, and accepted the affairs and the reality of their marriage, OR–a noteworthy alternative–they were on their second or third marriage. She could not believe in any other course of action, not after all she had experienced here. 

You might be saying, but wait! YOU said weddings brought out romance in even the hardest of hearts! And I did, didn’t I? I just also intend to add that weddings also bring out the worst in people. They bring to light all the rot that’s been festering under the surface: jealousies and lies, resentments and confrontation. Everyone feels entitled to someone else’s wedding day. The mother of the groom who hates the woman stealing away her lovely baby boy; the mother of the bride using the day to make up for her own crappy wedding; the bridesmaid who wishes she was the bride; the groomsman who also wishes he was the bride; the father of the bride who makes far too much money and everyone knows it, often against their will; the father of the groom who spends too much time in the bridal suite; the grandparents who try so hard to look down their noses from a hunched position; the cousin who is older than either the bride or groom and has to let everyone know, through harried laughter, how she cannot even believe they’re getting married before her! The list goes on. She stops abruptly in the cooled venue to pluck out a wilting anemone, crushing it in her hand.

And the couple themselves? Heaven knows what will happen to them. Predictions can be made but ultimately they’re left to make whatever decisions they make in their one precious life. She paused again and plucked out another flower, a spray rose with a slimy, rotted stem. Its head had fallen over the edge of the container, resting on the top of a navy goblet. It was still beautiful, but couldn’t hold itself up in the arrangement of flowers. After a wedding was over, that's all there was the next day. An experience to never forget and just a bunch of dead roses.

What if he does drugs that end up ruining his life? What if he never finds himself a husband Or a loving wife? What if he is timid and never follows His wildest dreams? What if he’s successful But he’s horrid and he’s mean? What if he decides That he can only lie? That no one will love him Or they only say goodbye? What if he regrets All of his biggest choices? Or he completes his aspirations But never fully rejoices? What if he lives ungrateful For the life that he creates? Or fights and throws his fists up And only blames the Fates?

I cannot bear to think Of all the hardships he’ll endure. The ups and downs The highs and lows Leaves me quite unsure.

And pardon my Dr. Seuss style rhymes But as his only mother I worry about him all the time.

Love is a lie that keeps us alive Take a deep breath, Come swim, take a dive. Drown in the depths of a coital embrace Cater to the waves While you forget your own face. Pretend it uplifts, That your love truly inspires, All the while managing a million small fires. Paint on that smile, Put on that mask, Praying that no one, someone, anyone, will ask.

I can’t stand the way you look at me  So I sit my ass right down. I meet your avaricious gaze With a thought provoking frown. I’ll hold my breath and a bears paw While I twirl around my drink Hoping, always, that just for once, I didn’t have to think: About the bar, about the scene, My dress, my shoes, my hair. All of it an alleged invitation, For the predators to stare. I cannot leave the building now, For your eyes are staying up My thoughts run faster than the drop Falling down my half-empty cup.

What a life I could lead If I could be freed From the looks of passing men! I’d prance through the firs Make all the cats purr And dance heedless in a moonlit glen! But instead here we are In a musty old bar While I yearn for a mother bear’s den.

But this is my life, that I’d like to lead Without your input, you skeeve. I throw down a twenty and caution, Then get up and walk out to leave. Your leer meanders upward But suddenly, it stops For the feral, crazed look in my eye  Makes you rethink some thoughts. The threat you can see, And the ones you cannot, Is quite real. And you really don’t want to get caught. You had started to move, But your courage is drowned. Because you can’t stand the way I look at you So you sit your ass right down.

“Oh, no, no, no, no,” the girl crooned, rocking violently as she ran her hands through her scraggly hair. She was curled in the corner of the dark room, as filthy as the dirt floor. They had unchained her over twenty-four hours ago, but she didn’t move outside of the five foot radius she had become accustomed to. She continued to mumble and was restless in her fidgeting.

“Why, Aiden, why did you kill him?” Sruthi pinched the bridge of her nose, exasperated. Her other hand gripped her side, grabbing at something besides Aiden’s throat. She had sent the rest of her team outside to run the perimeter. While she wasn’t officially trained to keep it a priority, she put the safety of her squad at the utmost importance.

“He deserved it! Keeping people, children, chained up like that!” Aiden was indignant, rightfully so. “He shouldn’t have been allowed to live as long as he had! We should have killed him as soon as we found him the first time.” His eyes brimmed with rage, his clenched fists remained at his sides, trembling. He kept his chin out, proud in his stance. And stupid, Sruthi thought to herself.

“Did you stop to consider,” she said, using a tone and cadence befitting speaking to a child, “that alive, he could lead us to other potential dens? That this horror show he was a part of could have been more than just him?”

Aiden’s face fell slightly, realization sinking in. The girl in the corner continued to stare at the dead body of her captor, stress radiating from her movements and constant murmurings.

“Or possibly think through the fact that I kept him alive,” her voice grew sharper, louder, her inhalations labored, “in order to use him for more information?” The dynamic in the room shifted, Aiden’s rage dimming as Sruthi’s became more palpable.

“No, ma’am, I didn’t think about that.” His voice was quiet, shamed. He lowered his head, cupping his hands together behind his broad back.

“You don’t think about anything!” She exploded, her arms splaying outward, causing his larger frame to shift back. She glared at him but didn’t move. She huffed, her frustration expelled in one swift demonstration.

She straightened and softened her voice, this time without the condescension. “Aiden, I understand why you were done keeping him alive. He was vile and awful and did not deserve to breathe. But this wasn’t your call to make. If you cannot take orders, I will have to take you off of my team.” Aiden’s head shot up at this, eyes pleading.

“Ma’am, no, please,” he began to beg. Sruthi knew he had been gunning for the open spot on her squad for months prior to getting it. She almost didn’t take him on since he was so green, but he needed to get experience somewhere. She knew it, that he, was a gamble, and this may have set them back a few days, but she knew didn’t regret having Aiden with them.

“But,” she threw up her hand, cutting him off, “I will give you another chance. You have to trust me, Aiden, and I have to be able to trust you. Otherwise this will not work.” Her voice gave no room for consideration of anything else.

“Yes, ma’am.” He sounded determined, and she really hoped he was.

“Dispose of the body, burn it out back,” Sruthi’s voice took on her default professional tone. “Make sure the perimeter is secured first, check with Taven or Haley. We don’t need to be caught unaware.”

Aiden turned with a curt nod, pausing in the doorway. “I won’t let you down again, Sruthi. I am sorry.” He walked out before she could say anything else. She took a deep breath and turned toward the distressed girl, who was still muttering frantically. The girl’s eyes widened at the attention. She looked an awful lot like a drowned cat, cornered and threatened. Sruthi didn’t move closer but lowered herself to a crouch. Now eye to eye, she spoke softly to this poor girl.

“My name is Sruthi. What is your name?”

The girl held her stare, having gone quiet at the direct attention. She said nothing at all now. Sruthi gave a small smile and sat down all the way. She made a conscious decision to stay out of range, outside the obvious area the chains allowed the girl to be in.

“Okay then. Can you tell me where you are from?” Sruthi tried again, pausing to give time for a response. “Do you have any family? Anyone who might be looking for you?” She heard quiet voices outside, indicating Taven, Haley, and Aiden were speaking. She couldn’t hear the deeper tones of Preston’s voice yet. He must still be securing the area.

“Any loved ones?” The look on the girls face suddenly twisted, angry. Finally, a response, Sruthi mused to herself.

“The only person I loved is dead now, thanks to you monsters!” Her voice was venemous and sounded as though her throat was scratched or scarred. As if she had screamed for a long time. Surprised at this proclamation, Sruthi raised her eyebrows.

“Him?” She inclined her head to the body Aiden hadn’t yet removed. She didn’t for a second look away.

“Yes!” hissed the girl. Suddenly, her mood shifted as her body wracked with an unearthly sob, her face crumpling in a different way. “You t-took him from me!” she wailed, an awful screech of a sound. Sruthi kept her face neutral but internally cringed.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Sruthi began slowly. She contemplated her next line, not wanting to risk ending the conversation. “Did he not hurt you?”

“No, no, no,” the girl shook her head adamantly with every ‘no’ she uttered, clasping her hands together in front of her chest. She began rocking again, the paths of her tears creating lines on her dirt stained face. “It was for my good! He only would beat me if I disobeyed, if I didn’t do what I was supposed to!” Her voice cracked periodically.

“And how often was that?” Sruthi began to wish she had been the one to take care of this monster, not Aiden.

“Well, sometimes it would be days, but I know I deserved it. I know he loved me, he was only trying to help me. He was only trying to help me, I was bad and he knew the right way to protect me, to take me out here so I could be good again.” Sruthi’s disgust of the man grew as the girl continued, knowing the amount of therapy to help reverse the abuse that had happened here was going to be astronomical. Messy and terrible work, but doable with the right help. Her heart ached for this girl, this child really. She was struck with a sick sort of gratitude that her job was to find and rescue, and not to rehabilitate. She shuddered at her own dark thoughts, rising to her feet while the girl prattled on, more to herself than to Sruthi.

Aiden and Taven walked in and began picking up the body. Haley cleared the doorway, moving toward Sruthi before they started manuevering back outside, their arms full. Sruthi surveyed the girl, watching her watch the men take her so-called beloved away. The girls eyes widened and she crawled, gollum-like, to the edge of her quarter-circle but no further. Sruthi and Haley had tensed at the girls sudden movement, but relaxed as they saw she would not go beyond, even though she was freed. Her muttering did not cease, oscillating between sounding melancholy and furious.

“What now?” Haley whispered as she came to stand by Sruthi, crossing her arms. Haley was a tall, intimidating figure, who never seemed to run out of the ability to be calm and collected at all times. Sruthi had seen Haley with the same disinterested look on her face while flirting at bars, in a closed-room interrogation, and during a chaotic gun fight they probably should have lost. Sruthi doubted even this situation would phase her.

“We stay here tonight, take turns on watch.” Sruthi’s gaze remained in that filthy corner of the room as she continued quietly. “I’ll see what more I can extract from the girl but we need to get her to a facility as soon as possible, she’s obviously malnourished, who knows what other physical ailments she has going on, and to get her psychological help.” Haley switched her attention to the girl, with that same impassivity, nodding slightly.

“Do you think we will get much of anything from her? From what I could hear, she’s brainwashed and abused at best.” Haley was usually pragmatic, and while she looked unphased, Sruthi knew better. Haley most likely hoped to spare the girl from further interrogation. From being subjected to this place, this cage, and speaking more of her abuser, her kidnapper.

“Yes, but if she knows anything, if he let anything slip, she might tell us. And that’s enough. It’s likely he wasn’t careful with what he said around her, considering she probably wouldn’t have lived much longer had we not found this shit hole.” Sruthi hoped the girl could give them something, anything. She finally turned her face to Haley’s, a weird mixture of stern and apologetic on her face.

“We need any information she could possibly give us, Haley. I’m just going to talk to her, and you can be in here too if you want, but she’ll be fine.” As fine as she can be, all things considered, Sruthi added in her head. Haley gave another small nod in understanding. “Wait here and stand watch while I check in with the others.” Sruthi didn’t wait for another affirmative before walking out under a clear, dark blue sky, visible through the sparse, new leaves on the trees.

Aiden was visible in the starlight, golden next to a fire he built about a hundred yards away. The underbrush was not quite filling in yet, allowing Sruthi to see his stiff stance as he rid them of the evidence of yet another monster she discovered. She turned to Taven, next to their own fire, cooking a ready-made chili-like substance of some sort. They were unbothered at the possibility of discovery, as anyone who might find them there were likely people they would be hunting anyway.

“Where is Preston? Is he not back yet?” She asked Taven, managing to sound only slightly concerned. He stood from the fire, adjusting the pot in his hands as he did.

“No, he-“ Taven was cut off by the sound of rustling branches as Preston bounded from behind the shack. He slowed to a stop by the side of the building, his labored breathing the only sign of his sprint back to their camp. Alarmed, Sruthi started toward him while he waved her off.

“No danger,” he got out between breaths, reassuring them only slightly. He wasn’t one to overreact, but his return to camp certainly seemed extreme for ‘no danger’. “I found something.” He straightened, clearing his throat. “I’m not totally sure what it is, some sort of shrine I’m assuming.” A tribute to his fitness, his breathing already normalized as he stood at attention, shoulders back and arms behind him. His eyes betrayed his steadiness with a haunted look, one Sruthi had never seen before.

“Okay, what else-“

“There was a human body on it. A sacrifice possibly, an offering.” Even the fire seemed to still. Taven ran a hand through his blond waves on an exhale. “Fuck,” he muttered.

Sruthi kept her focus on information, allowing herself to have feelings about it later.

“And?” she asked quietly, knowing there must be more.

Preston looked as though he was preparing himself. He met her gaze fully, with a weary look.

“Well. When I first got there, the person was still alive.”

We all have those stories that our family tells. Cute little anecdotes that everyone remembers in a similar way, that somehow illustrate a quirk or charming attribute of the people in the story. But sometimes in the retelling, we see something we didn’t see before. A light bulb goes off. A piece of information slides into place. Suddenly there’s an explanation.

“I’ll be nice to her until she’s two, then she’s on her own.” That is what my sister said about me when I was born. Oh, what a sassy 6 year old, everyone chuckled. She doesn’t yet know what it will be like to have a Little Sister. They’ll likely be the best of friends.

They should have believed her. She never liked me. It’s not something I acknowledged until recently, mainly because it never crossed my mind, the way I seemingly crossed her every day. It has been a Violent Confrontation. I have learned Reality isn’t usually defined until we pry until we prod until we peel until we poke and ask questions, and I had never asked.

There were other reasons to explain it, probably. She was a teenager, so of course she was going to be a little snappy, volatile, and even a little angry. Even a little physical. I was so much younger, so of course she was going to get annoyed with me. I trailed behind her, wanting her approval, wanting her to like me. Wanting her to love me. Isn’t that what sisters do? I would copy how she would laugh with her friends, mimic her humor, her cadence. Anything to flatter her. Maybe if I was more like her. I would take interest in what she was interested in, whether it be the extracurriculars she participated in, the music she listened to on our too old desktop, the shows she watched on cable television. But nothing worked, except for my excuses.

Then, I learned. I adapted, Darwin would be proud. I would keep my distance. Move down the hall when she came down the stairs. Walk out of the kitchen when she came for a snack. Scoot closer to a parent when she would sit on the couch. I gained superpowers of how to sense her shifting mood, sense when I needed to disappear sense when her patience grew thin. I learned quickly not to take up too much space, or take up too little. That I wasn’t that funny, or that nice to be around. That I wasn’t enjoyable or entertaining. That my just being there was unsavory tiresome even irritating. I was too loud, so I was obnoxious. I was too quiet, so I was shamed for being shy. My mere existence was irksome no matter its size, I had nothing of worth to contribute to the room, and my thoughts, my opinions, my feelings were unimportant. My efforts to collect the scattered, shattered eggshells off the broken linoleum and the worn, blue carpet were futile.

I didn’t realize where this came from. This inner voice that stalks my every move my every decision. I was the youngest. I was supposed to be dramatic
at the center of attention spoiled and attended to adorable and beloved This expectation was set And told to me all the time. And told to her all the time. I tried not to listen, I knew that wasn’t me, But I don’t think she could help it. Neither of us got to know who I was because neither of us wanted to.

I vaguely remember my other sisters occasionally sticking up for me. Nothing I distinctly remember, but enough that the feelings of love were believably reciprocated.

“It was just her” I tell my therapist. “She and I were never close, so why dredge it up now?” Because that is exactly what it feels like: dredging. Scooping out the muck, the filthy, sodden garbage.

You don’t realize how much of yourself is lost until you start picking up the pieces again. One by one, meandering in darkness, squinting to make out what it is you’re collecting, what it is you’re building back up. Hansel and Gretel at least planned ahead before being captured and eaten, leaving themselves a convenient trail back home. But you don’t plan for an abusive relationship, no one can. In any relationship, there is no expectation you will deviate from yourself so drastically as to one day need to find yourself again.

Thoughts and opinions, style choices and clothing preferences, ideals and standards, your favorite ways to celebrate or unwind, all these things you thought were so integral to your being: gone. Reshaped by an experience you never thought you would have.

Time time glorious finite ticking time. That’s what it takes to reassemble what you now will be. You were never going to look the same after this you never had a chance. Had it gone differently, you still wouldn’t have had the chance, because if it wasn’t divorce, it would have been something else that changed you. Life continues, rolling forward, a never ceasing movement of time.

You will, in fact Find yourself Again. you won’t look the same you won’t feel the same you won’t know the same you won’t hear the same you won’t BE the same.

You will be so much more.

There is no need to worry about where I will wander, for I will not walk this earth without you.

Be it up in the mountains where we are close to the sky, the stars and the moon within our grasp; surrounded by the open air, the frosty breath of altitude, amidst the grandeur of Aurora herself, but if I cannot turn to see your smile, nothing else is worth looking at.

If it is between seeing your eyes and the sun, I’ll live by the light of the moon.

Take my sight. I do not want it, not if I cannot behold my beloved.

In the depth of a valley after a spring rain, a field after a fresh cut, a bakery in the wee hours of the morning, I would trade it all for waking up enveloped in the scent of you. To inhale the soft flesh beneath your ear, where I am pressed. My nose to run up your neck, to be tickled by the hair you've grown out. Forgive me. You smell of the beginning of a long, beautiful journey.

In the warm pull of an oceans embrace, the gentle cooling breeze on a summer’s day, the satin pillowcase I lay down my head each night, all feels empty and cheap if I cannot feel your hand in mind. Fingers intertwining, palms pressed. I'll even take your clamming hand, due to my forthright behavior, than no hand at all. I would go my life without another kiss if you refused mine, for your mouth is the only one I want to kiss. To taste.

I would give up the best homemade breads and pastries, the smoothest gelatos and chocolates, the most perfectly spiced meats, the freshest of honeycrisps and romaine. They would turn to ash on my tongue. I could survive on your kisses alone.

Them and the sound of your voice. The deep, melodic tones of comfort, of reverence. You produce achingly sultry music I wish to play on repeat. Repeal from me the privilege of hearing the morning birds at dawn, an orchestra at full crescendo, a baby's first sets of gurgles. I would hear you, and you alone.

I know I make you nervous. In all my talk of forever there is you and me, and you're uncertain. But there is only love for us. There is not an existence worth pursuing, not a life worth living. I will not walk this earth without you, my love.

I still myself for the sounding crunch Of pine cones and deciduous leaves Falling, bouncing off the eaves While squirrels bound to find their lunch The softest noise, a tiny munch The dying world, the crisp air grieves And carries winter on its breeze Causing bundled shoulders to scrunch The smell of cinnamon and cloves The hot chocolate brewed in daily droves Future pies picked from the groves Boots worn in the dark and cold Until noonday sun we do behold They call it autumn, or so I’m told.