He opens his mouth again, the look on his face clearly saying attack, but his scowl fades rapidly as he looks down at something.
I follow his stare, seeing nothing.
“What?” I ask. The sweat is pouring off me now, and I think I’m going to be sick again. I swallow thickly, fighting the nausea, deeply alarmed by the look on Jase’s face.
“Juliette,” Jase croaks, pointing at my legs. No—pointing at my panties. I’m not wearing pants, just a thin tank top and white cotton panties.
“You’re bleeding,” he says, horrified. “Why are you bleeding?”
I’m bleeding? Why am I bleeding?
I’m so drenched in sweat, I didn’t even notice. But Jase is right; beyond the slight swell of my stomach, when I tilt my head to the side and down, I can see sticky red fluid coating the insides of my thighs.
Oh, God. I immediately put my hand between my thighs and bring it back to my face; red. Bright red and the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen.
“Juliette,” Jase repeats, and this time it sounds more like he’s begging me to give him an answer that doesn’t spell tragedy.
A whisper. “Why are you bleeding?”
Too good to be true. Too good to be true. I always knew this was too good to be true.
I start screaming.
Jase takes over because I’m screaming and bleeding and I don’t know what to do.
The baby. The baby.
Is she okay? Is she even alive? When was the last time I felt her move?
Before I know what’s happening, I’m being gathered up in strong arms and then, I’m in the passenger seat of the pick-up truck Luis left for us. There’s a thick towel between my legs and I watch in horror as the beige cotton turns red.
It hurts. It hurts everywhere, sticky and clammy, but mostly it hurts in my chest. In my throat. I did this. This is my fault. And although we’re hurtling away from the house at illegal speeds, I can already see there’s too much blood for this to end well.
A sharp pain stabs my back, gripping me and staying there, like a razor blade, for several seconds. I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut as it builds to a fiery peak. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. I’m biting my cheek hard enough to draw blood as the inferno finally lets up a little, but it doesn’t go away completely.
I draw in a breath, looking at Jase as I clutch our baby through my scarred skin.
When was the last time she moved? I need to know, but for the life of me, I can’t remember. Did I do this? Did the drugs make me bleed? I can’t even entertain the possibility of what that could mean.
The possibility I’ve killed our baby.
I would cry, but I’m too shocked. Five minutes ago, we were screaming the house down, and now, everything is melting away, fading, taking the last bit of my hopes and dreams along with it.
The only good thing to come out of this clusterfuck—and now I’m going to lose this, too?
The pain is so great by the time we get to the hospital that all I can see is red. This is more painful than being held down and raped. This is more painful than having my skin excised, piece by violent piece. More painful than a knife in my leg, than a cocaine overdose, than anything. This. Is. Hell.
This is like being ripped apart, from the inside out.
Somebody is screaming. I want to tell them to shut up, until I realize somewhere through the thick red haze that I am the one screaming.
OhGodOhGodOhGod.
I can’t walk. My legs don’t want to function right now. I’m panting as pain racks my body, onetwothreefourfive, reaches a violent peak, sixseveneight, before coasting back down, easing off, settling into a familiar dull ache for a few minutes of respite.
Contractions.
No! I refuse to accept that. These are cramps, I tell myself, just cramps, nothing more, just the comedown.
But you’re bleeding, the rational voice in my head whispers sadly.
I want to smash that rational voice in the face until she shuts her mouth.
Strong arms circle around my waist and pull me from the car; it’s raining, and I lean into Jase as he runs, two of us moving as one.
Three of us. But for how much longer?
When I open my eyes again we’re in a foyer, all drab beige paneling and plastic bucket chairs. I pant as another wave of pain slams into me, biting my lip so I won’t scream again.
“Sangre,” Jase yells. At first I think he says Sangue, as in Il Sangue, Emilio’s Cartel, and I go rigid. Until he says it again and I realize he’s saying Sangre. Spanish for blood. Jase glances around the walls, looking for the right word, I guess. “Embarazada!” he yells, turning me toward the bored-looking receptionist. She peers at me in alarm, her doe-like brown eyes going wide, and then she’s yelling something in Spanish. Embarazada. Pregnant. I remember that from the forms I filled out at the hospital before the ultrasound.