I almost revel in it, and I do sink to my knees and experience it, focusing on it as it contracts to and fro, from my spine to my chest.
I moan, I keen, I float.
I hold my belly in my arms and sing to it.
I cry and rock,
I sigh and sink into the floor,
My cheek pressed against the stone.
The pain wracks me, it takes me, it breaks me.
I see the black beings, and they are circled around me, waiting
Waiting
Waiting.
“No,” I screech, and I fling my arms far and wide. “No. You can’t have my baby and you can’t have me.”
They smile though, with fangs and blood, and I close my eyes, floating on my pain. Phillip is here now and he holds my hand and sings to me, his voice humming in my ear and it’s wordless and tuneless and he smells like the moon.
“Save me,” I tell him, I beg.
His eyes are black and soft, glistening like dark pearls and I want to stroke him.
“Save me, and I’ll save you,” he says and his hands are on my back, rubbing rubbing rubbing.
“Save our baby,” I beg and his words are confusing. “Whatever it takes.”
He stares at me, and his stare is sharp and jarring. “Whatever it takes?”
“Yes,” I scream as another pain wracks me, and rips me apart. “Yes.”
Phillip rocks me and rocks me and my mother comes and she blends in and out with the night, with reality, with my pain.
“We have to pay for the sins of our fathers,” she murmurs, and it’s something she’s told me many times before. “Think, Olivia. Think.”
But the pain,
The pain.
It dulls my thoughts, and all I can think of is it. The pain.
“Think,” she urges me again. “Who did the great Salome marry, Liv? You know this. Think on it. Think on it.”
The black seeps in from my eyelids and it turns red, and the words form in my mind, but I can’t read them, I can’t read them. I try and try.
I focus
And focus.
“Phillip,” I finally manage. “Salome married a Phillip.”
My mother sits back, satisfied. “Yes. She married a Phillip. Her uncle Phillip.”
I’m astounded and my pain ebbs and I can think for a moment.