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Your stomach hurt. It felt like the old cramps you'd had as young, the ones your father never believed were real. You never truly trusted each other; you felt he was lying to you, and he felt you were lying to him.
You don't want to touch your abdomen, because that will increase the pain and you'll realize what's inside.
Who's inside.
You sigh to banish those thoughts. You'd like a beer, but the smell makes you nauseous and want to throw up, so you just sit in the kitchen chair, scratching the edges of your finger, right next to the ingrown toenail.
You think about your former guests, even if you weren't very close to them and didn't really remember them often, about how every night three people would knock on your door looking for shelter.
At least that kept you away from him.
You stand up from your chair, slamming your palms on the table. You weren't going to think about him.
Thinking about him would be accepting what happened. What he did to you and what he put in your stomach.
You shudder at the thought. Your mind plays tricks on you, constantly sending your head back to him
You might think about what to have for dinner and your mind would bring back the scene from weeks ago.
On your hands and on the blood that came out between your legs after so much abuse.
Weeks had passed and the pain was still there every time you tried to go to the bathroom.
It was so badly damaged that there were times when you would urinate on yourself or on the bed.
You inconsistently remember how your father would pull your hair and whip you when you wet yourself when you were just a child
But you couldn't avoid it, and you really can't avoid it now.
Before it was the fear of a monster entering the house while you were still sleeping in your room, the same one that your father turned into the office years later. Now it was because that monster entered and hurt you.
He hurt you for hours. It was obvious you wouldn't be able to take it and it will leave you hurt.
But it didn't take away the shame; even if you were alone and no one came to your door seeking refuge, it made you feel marked.
It was a reminder of what he left behind after taking advantage of you.
You hadn't seen him for weeks, something you deeply appreciate after such an experience.
Even though you're afraid he'll come back, that he won't be satisfied and will take you back into his clutches
That his teeth bite into your skin and leave marks, that him snap your neck with a single movement. He wouldn't feel remorse repeating what he did, even with your lifeless body beneath him.
You didn't know what to think about death now.
Before, you were terrified of dying and not being able to come back. Your life wasn't the best, but you didn't want to leave it and die either.
But now, after so much pain, you don't know if you really want to live now.
You don't want to die, that's true, but you don't really want to live either.
Staying alive would mean letting that thing be born.
And he knew it.
That's why I took your weapon, that's why I had pushed everyone away
Maybe he was also the one who brought the food and always left it outside the door.
Why does he want this thing to be born so badly?
You close your eyes and head to the bathroom, feeling nauseous again.
You open the bathroom door and exhale a breath, feeling a nauseating taste in your throat.
As you leaned against the sink, feeling weak again, you couldn't help but look at yourself in the mirror.
God, you're horrible.
Dark, prominent under-eye circles, like bruises beneath your eyelashes, pale and sweaty all over.
You may have also avoided bathing; you don't want to see yourself naked never again.
Besides, if you stank bad enough, maybe he wouldn't want to get close because of the smell of death you gave off.
Or well, that's just your theory. You're not so sure it will work since he might have already become familiar with the smell of death.
You could say he was born with it.
You lower your head, seeing yourself stops the nausea, you don't know why but you're grateful.
You sit on the toilet with the lid down; it still hurts a little to sit down, but it hurts more to stand for a long time.
"Just suck it up like a man," you thought.
You fought too hard to be seen as one, so it's the least you can do.
But it really hurts. Besides the physical pain, you feel hurt inside. You had fought so hard just to be perceived as a real man
And he just... made you feel like all that struggle was for nothing.
You feel less of a man.
Even with your upper surgery and the medications you tried to take, you now felt like you did years ago.
Too thin, delicate, and feminine
You wish you could smash your head against the sink, that the material of the furniture would crack your skull and pierce your brain
Perhaps that will make you forget.
Forgetting how you could barely do anything. He was too strong, you too small
You tried to scratch, punch, and kick. Nothing stopped him; he even seemed to enjoy it.
Has he done the same to other people? You wouldn't know what to think if he did that to everyone.
And even less so if he had only done it to you.
Your eyes are itchy. You can't cry, you don't want to cry.
A man should not cry.
But how much of a man were you if he reduced you to a warm, fertile womb?
Do you even have the right to call yourself a man?
Men don't grow something inside them
Men successfully defend themselves
A real man wouldn't have let this happen
So, could you really call yourself a man if you couldn't get out of this?
You close your eyes to stop the tears from falling; your chest hurts, and your stomach hurts too.
Your throat closes up, and it also starts to hurt the longer you hold back the tears.
Your father used to hit you every time you cried; he taught you not to scream or cry anymore.
But you cried and screamed that time.
You screamed so much when he were tearing you apart inside
You cried like never before when he didn't stop even when he saw the sheets stained with blood and fluids.
And now you want to cry and scream until you're hoarse and dry.
But something is stopping you.
Perhaps it's a reflection, a small hope that cries out that everything will be alright.
Time heals all wounds
But how long do you have to wait for yours to heal?
Weeks have passed. You just feel like your wounds are getting bigger or opening up more.
Your stomach only gets harder with each passing day, that worries you
You don't want to check, you don't want to lift the sweater that still protects you from the truth
You may remember the event, but seeing what it left behind will only break you more.
Curiosity killed the cat, they say.
And you don't want to be the cat now. That will kill you once and for all.
You open your eyes and look at your shoes, you want to think a little more but three loud knocks snap you out of your thoughts
In the past, you had been able to detect visitors by the way they knocked on the door.
Humans play softer; if they play loudly, they have to exert effort. But the visitors strike loudly without effort.
You don't want to stop, even though your mind tells you to, in case it's someone who can offer you company.
You're terrible at social situations, and when your neighbor told you to let people in, you couldn't help but be somewhat rude at the idea of letting strangers into your house.
You got up when the blows didn't stop
It was him, you knew it, and it terrified you.
You hadn't seen his face for weeks, but he kept leaving food outside your door ever since he started killing delivery drivers.
You still wonder where and how he gets good food
You stop when the knocking ceases, your hand just inches from the doorknob
You open the door slowly and confirm that he's no longer there, so you open the door completely.
You look down to see a bag of groceries, and also an orange cat next to it.
You freeze.
You had a cat before, a skinny, hairless one with black spots on its white fur
If you were a cat, you would definitely be that cat that died a long time ago.
You look around frantically, not knowing what to do, while the cat just watches you intently.
Or at least that's what you think with its crossed eyes.
The cat was ugly
But you felt a small thrill in your chest.
It was no longer fear, sadness, or fury
You felt happy to see the cat slowly walking towards you and slipping between your legs
You took the cat in your hands slowly, as if it weren't real, as if it were going to fall apart on its own.
You stare at him intently and silently
Your eyes watered and your throat closed up. You felt as if your nose were swelling and you sobbed loudly and ugly.
You hugged the cat that meowed in surprise, you cried like never before into its dirty, orange fur
Your throat felt like it was burning as you moaned after each sob
The cat's warmth only made you cry more, so you clung to it.
Tears kept streaming down your cheeks; you bet you looked awful.
But after an emotional pause that left you on the brink of nothingness, you could finally cry, feeling the comforting warmth in your arms.
You stopped crying for a moment and felt your eyes swollen and your nose blocked with mucus
The cat stared at you, as if it were angry after its fur had been attacked with tears, snot, and drool.
But you felt calmer. Not sane, but calm.
You hugged the cat more gently, trying to clean its fur while the cat just let you pet it.
You almost forgot the bag of food, because you were busy with the cat, so you quickly grab it and take it inside.
You glanced outside as the cat jumped out of your arms and wandered around the house, barely noticing in the distance a pale and unusually tall figure
You didn't do anything, you just let the door finish closing.