You remember the kindergarten with its bathroom fitted for
young children. Stalls with no doors and a long trough for a
sink. The floor was concrete that sloped down to a drain in the
middle. You remember trembling, your skirt soaked with
blood, and thinking that at least the mess would be easy to
clean. Collapsing, you woke in a hospital where an elderly
doctor told you the horrible news. The induced labour ripped
your child from your body. You screamed where a baby
should’ve cried.
Coming home, you saw that the cot had been returned. The
walls were repainted and black bags filled with unplayed toys
lined the wall. He grieved with you for the appropriate amount
of time. When you couldn’t stop blaming yourself, he started to
blame you as well. Conversations got shorter. He pulled away
as you drowned. The love you once shared was now a burden
to uphold, a routine that neither knew how to break.
Resentment grew.
The tears subside. Your sobs calm down a little. You can
breathe again. You rip off a piece of tissue and wipe your eyes.
You can hear the thump of your pulse in your ears. A wave of
nausea hits, a sudden attack that brings you to your knees for
the twelfth time this week.
‘Uh, another bulimic.’ The girls at the mirror mutter amongst
themselves as they pack up their make up and leave, their
jeers and laughter ringing in your ears.
When it’s over you stand up and close your eyes, resting your
head against the side wall for a moment. Opening the door,