Consequence

There was blood everywhere.

He wiped his hands down the fronts of his thighs, and cringed. He didn’t know there would be so much of it, and that it would be so sticky, and cling to his hands like it was trying to soak through his skin and become a part of him, become his.

Her breath rasped. Her knees were jutting in the air and tears streamed down her face. “Is there supposed to be this much?” he asked.

Her hair was dark and ropey with sweat. “How the fuck should I know, Remy?” she gasped. And then her eyes closed and she sat up; it was like the sound in her throat was doubling her over. He watched her and took her hand when she reached, frantic, panicked, and the room grew thicker with the metallic odor of the blood and sweat they were now sharing.

“We should go to the hospital.”

She shook her head, and she said, he’s coming, and he was. Black purple matted mess that he was emerged between her thighs, and involuntarily Remy reached down to catch him. The slippery head filled his palm and he stayed there while she breathed. His heart pounded between his ears. This was a view of her he’d never had, never expected to have. It was frightening, and overwhelming. Beautiful. Important.

Then she grabbed his shirt on top of his shoulders and pulled up and didn’t scream; she never screamed. She growled. And the infant slipped out and he caught him between his hands like a football. He was still. Quiet. She said, “Do like they do in the movies, hold his feet and smack his back to make him breathe!” Her eyes were huge and full of fear.

He did. And the thready cry filled the Airstream from one end to the other. She grabbed the yellow blanket beside her and took him, wiped him, cradled him, and kissed his purple head.

And the blood flowed.

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