Genre: Life, Relationship
The Miracle of Life by Marie Parrish
“Alice?” I questioned the
petite, brown haired woman. She walked towards me, stomach
bumped an early pregnancy. I led her to the back room while she blabbed blabbed blabbed
about the usual chit-chat the baby kicked the baby made her pee the baby made her tired.
Again I wondered why she was pregnant. The radio in the corner of the exam room
whispered, “the vote for Prop 4 goes up in a week.” “What’s that?” I asked eyes tearing
away from notes. “I said I wished the father had come today,” eyes narrowed, Alice gazed at
the sun. “Minors need consent,” the radio hissed. I nodded, “How old
are you Alice?” “I’ll be 18 in two weeks,” her teeth glowed at me.
She wasn’t even an adult. “BLASPHEMY!”
I jumped eyes jumped between Radio and Alice. “What can I help you with today?”
“I need my options for abortion.” “Women can’t choose to kill, what about the baby?” I
smiled kindly and explained it depended. She wrapped shiny pink hands around biceps
and rolled a shoulder, “I’m 14 weeks.” I sighed. “Women are irresponsible, they can’t be
trusted with-” I moved my hand to turn off the radio. “Fathers are arguing that
only they can be trusted with matters of this caliber.” I flicked the switch and turned
back to little Alice. “I can do a dilatation and evacuation procedure, where we put you to sleep and
vacuum out the child.” Alice’s mouth shrunk she nodded, “how soon?”
“Today if you like.” “I can vacuum it out and choose what to do with you.” Then I gave
her an injection to put her out.
A single medical light set up the stage.
I shrug on my white coat, run a hand
through my moussed, brown hair, and shift to wash my hands in the stainless steel sink.
“You women,” I say, rolling my neck giving a sidelong glance to the wiggling woman
fighting against the ties on the surgery table. Hannah. A chooser.
“Chooser,” I chuckle and stalk over to the table.
I glide my hands from Hannah’s small ankles up to her thighs, and relish in the feel
of her, soft, supple, meat. She shakes under my hands, bleating
softly to me.
I glance back to Alice and her child propped against the
white wall, one eye open and lifeless, baby curled on the second exam table- skin marbled.
Alice had tried to choose.
I exhale; the time for choice was over.
“Today I give birth,” I proclaim.
I look the woman under my hands in the face. Her head violently shakes left to right, spittle
dragging down her chin. My eyes slide down to her ripe belly
I smile, and let her go. I turn instead to the surgical
table and the industrial bottle of Surgi-lube. I slather the stuff on
like butter, my arms gleam under the fluorescent light.
I was told he was the best prenatal doctor
slide a finger into her, sighing.
And then two And then my fist I pump in ‘n out to loosen
the muscles before pushing against the cervix, the child’s prison gates.
“This,” I grunt, punching through, “is mine”. Amniotic fluid dribbles
down my arm in a steady yellow flow. The woman’s muffled screams bounce
around the operating room like a cheap bouncy ball. I feel the baby’s neck —
HA! – a hand hold that I grab tight and pull. It’s a wet,
one way tug-of-war. “This will always be mine,” I exhale loudly, sweat
oozing down my face and neck I can see the things head now peeking out
between Hannah’s Refined Ruby lips.
Tt the things free, I hold it up like a successfully killed rabbit.
Hannah has passed out, probably from relief that I took this from her.
“I choose the life,” I drop the baby to the linoleum floor with a splat, cord
still attached, and pick up the marble baby from the table.
“And I choose when the life,” Alice’s child is ripe, it had been sitting out for nights,
rising, now it was time to bake. I place the child’s head against those
red, red lips and push. Little bits burst with dark liquid
adding to the red as I pressed. The berry syrup made things very messy.
It would have been better to chop this into smaller pieces before shoving it up
the woman. I push and shove until it’s finally in. I take my pitcher
the front was bright, spic ‘n span, freshly
built, tan and white, sliding glass doorsmy
water from the surgical table and pour it over the lips washing them clean.
Then pick up my needle and thread to sew them up. “And I choose how the life,”
Bake for 30 minutes. The woman’s stomach bubbles and ripples.
Her horse screams alert me that it was almost done.
A faint whistling came from under the woman. The ripples spreading out,
Bloating her body. And then she popped.
“A life all my own,” I whispered, wiping the carmine stew from my face
to see the result. All that remained was the stomach, the protrusion
pealing open like a corpse flower and out came muscle slick skin yellow buttercream
covered face crawling like a silent movie. A small thin figure, naked with slit eyes
wiggled around. Its eyes eyed me as it slid to the
sticky, red floor and dragged itself, leaving a trail of slime
and cloud of lactose gas behind,
out the door.
* * * * *
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