Page 94 of Red Flagged
The life I was currently losing. The one I hadn’t gotten to meet. The one who didn’t make it because my body was a grave it didn’t deserve.
I imagined whispering those same words to it.I’m still here, even when you’re not.The guilt was nearly crippling, because I survived and it didn’t.I’m sorry,I wanted to tell it.I’m sorry I failed you.
I loved it as much as the others I’d lost. They were all a part of me. Just like a part of me was lost with them.
Before my mindcould spiral much further, Étienne let out a dramatic yelp from the kitchen.
“What thefuckis this toaster?!” he called out. “I pushed one button and it lit up like a spaceship!”
Emilie burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it; I did too. But mid-laugh, I felt it. The awful, warm confirmation low in my pelvis. Wetness. Blood.
I grimaced, already knowing I’d soaked through another tampon. “I’ll be right back,” I said quickly, excusing myself and slipping down the hallway into my bedroom’s ensuite.
I shut the door quietly behind me, pulled off my leggings, and stared down at the evidence of everything slipping out of me.
I was still bleeding. Still holding my emotions in.
And I didn’t know how much longer I could do it.
I washed up quickly, changed into clean leggings, and took one long, bracing breath before reemerging.
Back in the kitchen, Étienne and Emilie were yawning, putting the last of the food into the fridge. The half-eaten cheese and baguette were wrapped in beeswax cloth. The wine corked and left upright near the sink. A look at the oven clock told me it was just past eight.
They had a few hours of driving ahead back to the estate outside Marseille. I didn’t want them to stay, but I didn’t want to be alone.
But I also didn’t have the strength to ask for either.
Emilie gave me a tight hug at the door, murmuring something about bringing more things next time. Étienne promised to help with the rest of the furniture once I figured out where I wanted it. I told them I’d come by soon to finish moving my boxes out of my room.
We all pretended that wasn’t a loaded promise.
“Text when you’re ready,” Étienne said, squeezing my shoulder.
“We’re proud of you,” Emilie added, her voice softer.
I nodded, smiling faintly. “Drive safe. Thanks for everything.”
I stood on the porch as they climbed into Emilie’s car, headlights flashing on the gravel. I waved once and watched the tail lights disappear down the winding path.
And just like that, I wasn’t strong anymore.
I locked the front door, bolted the deadbolt, and barely made it two steps before the first sob ripped out of me. My hand clutched the doorknob behind me like an anchor as my knees buckled and my throat ripped open around the sound.
I didn’t even make it to the living room. Just curled on the floor of the entry for a moment, trying to catch my breath through the grief I couldn’t name out loud. I fucking crawled to the bedroom—palms slapping against the hardwood, body aching in every joint, every muscle trembling from exhaustionandpain. My abdomen pulsed in deep, twisting waves. I dragged myself the rest of the way, half crawling, half pulling, with what little strength and dignity I had left toward a room that still smelled like unfamiliar air.
Then I pushed myself up, gripping the edge of the doorframe, and stumbled into the bedroom.
I unpacked my shower bag methodically, setting it on the bathroom shelf. Toothbrush. My razor. My salve. Body wash. The shampoo and conditioner in the Dubois signature black bottles. A fresh towel hanging neatly on the hook by the tiled shower, the soaking tub off to the left and overlooking the backyard. Each action kept me from completely losing it.
Then I placed an order through the delivery app, with just minutes to spare to receive tonight. Pads, heating patches, electric blankets, iron supplements, electrolyte drinks, goddamn adult diapers for long stretches of rest, and the medication I knew I’d need to start managing the cramping if it got worse. I tapped the checkout button and let the screen go dark.
I rifled through my canvas duffel blindly until I felt the familiar shape of the orange-capped bottle tucked inside the interior pocket. Then a second bottle, then a third.
These were myjust-in-casepills. Prescribed after the last miscarriage, after the laparoscopic endo surgery, when recovery left me broken in body and mind.
One was zolpidem, a sleeping aid that shut the noise off fast. One was diazepam, for the anxiety spikes and post-op muscle spasms that used to leave me gasping. And the last one was my leftover Vicodin prescription.
I lined them up on the nightstand, the labels catching the soft glow of the bedside lamp as I stepped back to look at them all. Not to takeallof them. I wasn’t reckless. But I needed something to stop the spiral before it swallowed me whole.
