Grace Renae

United States

I am a firm believer that some things have no meaning, but I over-analyze them anyway.

Message from Writer

I love writing and always have, but I know that there are plenty of people superior in this field. Therefore, I welcome any and all constructive criticism.

Miscarriage

March 24, 2019

FREE WRITING

1
    The whole situation is as horrifying as it is enigmatic. 
Here in this moment, there are things that exist and don’t at the same time, things that are breathing and not in one prolonged second of agony. My world has opened up, and yet God stands on the other side of the door waiting to slam it in my face. He does not want me to step across the doorframe. Just as well. I am not ready to live in heaven. I stare back at him with my eyes wide open, and He points downward to the ground beneath me; I know what he allowed to happen. My retribution. He will not let me across the doorframe.
    The bathroom tiles pixelate and change colors below my feet. I do not leave a footprint and I do not know if I touch the ground. I do not know how pain suddenly consumes my lower back and dances black spots across my vision. I do not know never know not know. I know the red.
    I know the red pain.
    My mother, in all her glory, never once forgot to say the rosary prayer in the morning. She left this Earth with the beads upon her chest and a saintly expression to put the Virgin Mary to shame. Collecting underneath me now is her curse. Black sludge. She knows now that I did not utter the words in the confessional on Sunday morning—perhaps because I could not bring myself to say them before God—but what will it matter when He does not want me inside the next stage of life? What difference does it make to say them now?
    “Cursed girl,” she calls me.
    I wish what happens now happened to her before I crowned.
    I feel like the minimalists. The imagists. Let’s just subtract sentences until we find the cleanest, barest, starkest version underneath, no baby or boyfriend or blood circling into the drain below me. Write a poem in the aftermath, a single sentence long: losing without wanting, becoming nothing before being something.
    There should be tears. I’m not crying.
    The locker room shower consumes my confusion, and with it, the only part of my life that actually made sense. My lover will never love me again.

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  • March 24, 2019 - 2:59pm (Now Viewing)

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1 Comment
  • ~Kate T

    I saw your comment about the "flip the switch" brain idea, and I LOVE it. I was wondering if I could use something like this in my story with a few tweaks (I'll give credit). If not, that's fine. (Also, I couldn't help but read this piece and I want to say that though it's sad, it's also very powerful. I really liked it).


    over 1 year ago