"Ruminations over the loss of his dream" by Emma Burnett

When I wake, the baby is gone.

My hand rests on my flattened, soft belly, empty except for some gas. Maybe it’s left over from the dream pregnancy. Maybe it was the kimchi.

He’s still asleep. I ooze out of bed. The baby is still warm in my mind, nagging like the grit in my eyes. She was dark as the night, this baby, peppered with stars that shone through her skin. 

In the night, like the night, she existed. Now she’s gone. I breathe a sigh of relief, though maybe it’s just the release of a morning pee. 

The night before, the baby was tropical sea blue-green, fish swimming across its little legs. It swam away as dawn broke. Tomorrow, I know, it will be red, deep like the blood that is on its way. I can feel it in my uterus, pooling, preparing to evacuate. Another month gone.

I have grown to welcome these nightly visitors, manifestations of his dreams appearing in mine. A baby, the thing he says will make our family complete. 

I stand in the cold bathroom and stab myself with whatever it is that I’ve been given this cycle. The doctors are always so cheerful, suggesting I consume this, inject that. They want me to know they support me, and so does the medical industry. Everyone is behind me. Pushing me. 

There is a gurgle and a twinge deep in my abdomen. 

It will be a blood-red baby tonight, the colour of his rage.

Emma Burnett is a recovering academic. She’s big into sports, cats, and being introverted. You can find more of her stuff here.