It ran down the insides of her thighs, branding her with pulsing life, an arterial red touch bleeding against sensitive skin. She was horrified. Horrified at the child fleeing her body.
Horrified at the look on his face before he turned away. Pale and scared- disgusted. Like he wanted to vomit. Like he was watching something unwatchable. He couldn’t look, and didn’t know enough to look away. He didn’t know enough to help, to know what she needed.
“Go clean yourself up, please,” was all he said.
How could he know? How could she blame him when she hadn’t yet told him about what they’d made? It wasn’t his fault, the not knowing. What was his fault was the not understanding what she needed. Never understanding her. Never even trying.
That. She blamed him for that.