Blood rushes out of me when I stand. I jam a pillow between my legs and make my way to the bathroom.

Skin against the white tile, another wave of pain washes over me. The pain tears through me again and again. I writhe on the floor.

When it subsides, I pant on the ground, face on the cool tiles, body still heaving. I climb up the sink, clinging to the porcelain for strength, my child gone.

VISION

It is pregnancy season. I am big in the belly, my body heavy and aching.

My mother stands next to me. This is called tradition.

She helps me pull off my black dress, revealing my stomach.

“You look just like I did when I was pregnant with you,” she says.

She runs her hands over my knot, and I look at my belly with her.

“You’re going to make us so proud,” my mother says.

My belly extends like the moon, the growth of the child creating new purple marks across my skin.

When the contractions come, they come hard. My mother soaks cloths in ice water and holds them to my face.

Inside, the baby keeps moving, keeps forcing itself down, I am at the mercy of fresh pain. My mother holds me tighter as I twist.

My moans keep coming until my mother’s hands appear, holding a black strip of fabric, which she slides between my lips, tying it tight around my head.

“When it gets bad, bite down,” my mother whispers.

She moves down to my splayed-open legs, finding another angle to help, a place to put her empty hands.

The black cloth holds tight in my mouth and I bang my fists onto the ground, my roaring muffled.

A huge contraction tears through me, the biggest one, a quarry of red slicing open, a path, the pressure of the child’s head breaking through my smaller skin, making it wider, splitting my body.

My mother catches the bloody child in clean hands. The first wails begin.

My mother brings the child to my arms. I look for the only thing I wanted, the only thing that would make me happy.

“She’s just like us,” my mother says, her voice cold.

I could feel that all along, but prayed it was not true. I rip the black cloth from my mouth and wail.

◆Greek women believed they would miscarry if they fainted, got scared, or had strong emotions

◆The majority of miscarriages are the result of random genetic errors that make normal fetal development impossible

◆Roughly 50% of pregnancies ultimately become miscarriages; often, a woman will not even realize she is pregnant before she loses a child

◆Miscarriage occurs in all animals that experience pregnancy; in many species of sharks and rays, stress-induced miscarriages often occur at capture

IN A DREAM, I CARRY MY CHILD ACROSS The Acres and to the Meat Quarry. My child is in a small box. I hold a silver shovel.