An old piece of writing from the archives – an oldie, but a goodie – and timely:
The crimson tide. It makes slaves of us all. I’d do anything to be rid of it.
Once a month, my face contorts in a grimace of pain, my fingers clawed as I clutch at my gut. All this torment, and you expect me to believe that it’s because some vengeful asshole that lives in the sky is angry that the progenitor of tits and vag units ate an apple one time?
Come on, man.
Some idiot once told me that the reason the pain comes on so hard was because women didn’t PRAY hard enough. We were supposed to suffer. “God’s Will” and all.
Honestly? I could give a shit. But I can tell you where it’s going.
I’ve been doing my research, HARD core. Sympathetic magic? It WORKS.
I’ve found a way to make my blood work FOR me instead of against me every month.
The clay statue resting in the alcove in my basement seems so innocent; its googly eyes rolling this way and that when I handle it. For seven months now I’ve been talking to it, cooing to it as if it were the very child that was supposed to issue forth from this body.
The one I refuse to have.
Birth control, ain’t it a bitch.
Mother nature may hate me, but I have that bitch by the balls now.
THIS is my child now; a reddish stained horror that I mold by hand with the heat from my menses.
Sharp, wicked teeth to bite and tear make its mouth a cruel, grinning slash. It’s a caricature of madness with a tuft of hair matted down with dried blood along the side of its face.
Month after month, I squat before it, eyes bright with anger and pain as I smear it reverently with the reddish ‘mud’ meant to nourish the egg that’s being ejected from my body.
I whisper to it, telling it my secret things. The list of enemies is growing longer every day.
Soon – soon it will be ready.
I can hear it talking back now, watching its posture slowly shifting as the days pass. The smile grows wider as it grows stronger, eager to complete the varied tasks I’ve set before it.
It made its first sound today. I could’ve sworn it said ‘mama’.
I’ve never felt prouder.
Get ready, world. My daughter comes.
© Copyright Jhada Addams 2013