I thrash my body against him, every muscle fighting him. It’s enough that he has to fight back. He bears down on my throat. I dig my nails into the soft part of his hand—the webbing that spans my trachea—and dig in until I feel a slickness. Blood runs from his palm and he grunts in pain, clenching his teeth and squeezing harder. I can feel myself beginning to lose consciousness.
The world goes fuzzy, dim. We are locked in this moment so similar to other moments we’ve shared together. The entirety of our relationship begins to coalesce in my mind. The disproportionateness of it. The way that Tom always held some kind of power over me. At first as my professor, then as my lover, and now as my killer. I’ve never escaped him.
The thought is the last thing I’m able to coherently put into words in my mind. Pressure makes my head feel like it’s going to pop right off my shoulders. My eyes bulge, I’m sure. They water as he chokes me. I hear something in the distance. Someone calling his name. Vanessa, I think.
Then there’s a shout and I see her over him. He doesn’t sense her there. She looks into my eyes and her face fixes itself into a grimace. There’s a jolt and Tom’s hands grow weak. His grasp is broken. His eyes are no longer fixed on some point beyond me. He sees me again. The animal wildness that was there is replaced by something else, something that I know all too intimately: pain.
Tom collapses beside me, curling himself into the fetal position. I gasp and reach for my throat. The lack of pressure is enough to make me giddy. I sit up, like a vampire rising from its coffin, my chest heaving me back to life. I feel the oxygen return to my blood and life runs through my veins.
I look to my side and see Tom, crumpled on the floor. I gather myself and stand. And as I rise, I see it.
The knife is lodged squarely in his spine.
BIRDIE
Birdie reaches a hand down to her abdomen, just beyond the horizon of the curve of her belly. She feels the slick wetness of the blood from the stab wound that Tom left in her. She touches the wound, feeling the separation of flesh, realizing that only an inch or two below that, there is a child. A child that is ready to be born. Now.
A contraction seizes her abdomen. She feels it throughout her entire body. Her shoulder aches with the movement of her muscles. It feels like the world is melting away. She opens her eyes once more and sees Tom in a heap on the floor a few feet from her. A stack of paintings litters the ground. Brittle from the elements, a few of them have torn in different places. She looks over to see Ione rushing to her side.
Vanessa stands, her eyes dazed by what has just happened.
She cups a hand around her mouth. She gasps. The sound is a squeak in the darkness. It could be a mouse if Birdie didn’t see the woman standing in front of her.
Birdie grits her teeth, bearing down with the contraction.
“It’s happening,” she says between breaths to Ione.
Ione clutches her hand, allowing Birdie to squeeze with everything she has. She hears her friend’s knuckles crack, another sound in the darkness. The crunching of bones brings Birdie back to the moment. The room seems to stop melting as the contraction abates.
Everything comes back into focus long enough for her to hear Ione.
“We’re going to get you out of here,” Ione says.
“There’s no time,” Birdie replies.
Ione turns to Vanessa. The woman stands, hand still covering her mouth, over the form of her husband.
“Vanessa!” she calls to her.
Vanessa doesn’t move. Her chest begins to heave, up and down, faster and faster. She’s hyperventilating.
“Vanessa!” Ione shouts this time.
Vanessa looks at her. Her eyes are wild, mirroring the way her husband’s eyes looked only a few moments ago.
“I need your help,” Ione says.
Vanessa’s eyes tear up. She looks at the pair of them. Birdie breathes quickly, trying to keep the pain at bay.
She steps forward, approaching the pair of them. She steps over Tom’s legs as she moves toward them. Tom moves slightly, he makes a noise that sounds like it might be his last. Birdie clenches her jaw again as another contraction seizes her.
“I need you to help her,” Ione repeats to Vanessa.
Vanessa swallows. She tries to catch her breath.
“I can’t,” she says between breaths.
“You have to,” Ione says, releasing Birdie’s hand and grabbing Vanessa’s face, placing it between her palms.
Vanessa’s eyes dart between both of Ione’s, searching for something, Birdie thinks. The woman is terrified. Birdie’s never seen her like this. The thought creeps up on her like an assailant in a dark parking lot. She doesn’t have her keys between her knuckles at the ready to defend herself.
She grits her teeth and feels the grind of her molars—hears the squeak of bone on bone—and flicks her tongue to the back of her mouth, feeling a piece chip off in the process. She probes the new ridge of her tooth, losing herself in the action.
“Vanessa!” Ione shouts.
Vanessa nods frantically. She reaches back and grabs the knife that sticks out of Tom’s back. He screams as she yanks it free. She gets between Birdie’s legs. She slices through her underwear and helps Birdie to spread her thighs apart.
“Relax your legs,” Vanessa says.
Birdie barks a bitter laugh. It sounds like something she’s heard before at the gynecologist’s office. An instruction that was always laughable. How is a woman supposed to relax with her legs spread, the object of most men’s desire and hatred exposed for a stranger to examine?
“I know it’s hard,” Vanessa says. She sniffs, trying to stop the tears. She places her hands on Birdie’s knees, guiding them apart. Birdie fights it at first as a contraction comes on. She screams, no longer afraid
