Content warning: This piece describes an abortion procedure and grief.
My eyelids hung low, sopping wet like sheets hanging on a clothesline in an unexpected rainstorm.
The last of the bottle of wine was in my glass; I couldn’t bear to swallow another mouthful. I began to think of my surgery and the day following that time.
My journal lay open, pen uncapped, hands too trembling to write a word.
The doctor wouldn’t sedate me because I drank orange juice that morning. I don’t know why I did that; I knew not to drink or eat anything. Maybe part of me didn’t really want to go through with it.
So I lay on the bed (bed?), looking up at the ceiling. Four of the ceiling tiles had been replaced with a translucent mural, almost like stained glass, a skylight to the ceiling, a portal to the heavens. On them was printed a scene of several hot air balloons floating in the sky. They looked so real among white clouds that looked so peaceful and perfect, as if I was a kid again on the beach waving both arms at them above. I could almost imagine one of their passengers looking down at me, seeing a dark brown mass flailing on the earth below, and waving, possibly smiling at the envy I certainly felt for them, as imaginary as they were.