The pregnancy hormones were not kind to her. Her face bloated, her fingers swelled. Her bony ankles disappeared into pouches of malleable flesh. She was nearly unrecognizable to herself.
These symptoms enticed other mothers to touch her gently, to commiserate with her. They were the tattoos of a biological gang. Her sisters in childbirth had her back because she was a novitiate, a prospect. Her initiation was coming, fast and hard and unavoidable, and they stood by her, cooing over the burgeoning life in her belly.
Men became chivalrous, opening doors and offering chairs. Her puffiness drew out of them something besides the instinct to seduce. She thought it would bother her, their avuncular solicitousness, but it made her feel feminine, magical.
There was a secret unkindness, though. She understood that it was trivial. The six or so small sores, like pimples, but not, that rippled up from under the skin of her shoulders and back. A normal woman would have born them with no more chagrin than the water retention and the dulling of her hair.
She was so far from normal, though. Such a mess of self loathing, that she often needed to worry at small injuries until they grew painful, raw and weeping, before eventually healing and scarring. Before her pregnancy, she limited her bizarre compulsion to open her wounds to the flesh of her arms and legs.
But while the baby grew, she would catch herself, held captive by the dividing cells within her, running her fingernails under the edges of the scabs, freshly formed from the previous day’s damage.
There was a thrill in lifting the repairing tissue away, exposing the raw flesh to air, gauging by the color of the dampness on her fingertips how healed the wound was underneath. The pain, worst and most welcome when the scab was ripped away, but stinging and lingering for a few minutes after, like a drag from a postcoital cigarette, was wonderful. The tearing up of progress, and the resulting new beginning soothed her frenetic energy, her manic need to be moving, shifting, doing, even while her pregnancy seemed to urge her to slow down, to stop, to feel.
Her husband did not often linger at her shoulders, did not pay homage to her back in any real way, and so missed the sores that lingered, fading and reappearing throughout the thirty weeks she carried their child. She took a guilty pleasure from her little acts of self-mutilation, and when she was focused on the acts themselves, her self loathing was both silenced and justified.
Even more justified when the small life inside her extinguished itself, destroying it’s only home as it died.
It was the self loathing as well as the pity and fear in her husband’s eyes that allowed her, when the other man came into her life, to step out the door and away from pain and misery for a time.
With this other man, this new man, she became what he saw, burying much of herself so deeply inside her that it stretched her tight.
She went to his house by the lake, she played her violin in the sunshine of a stolen summer. She picked his tomatoes, remembering in their ripe skins what it felt to cradle life. She slept in his arms.
It was that summer, making breakfast with him in his sun-drenched kitchen, that he noticed the half-dozen small, silvery scars she’d left gouged into her own skin. She’d been looking out over the lake, when the echo of a contraction squeezed her phantom womb. She’d cried out, and he had come to her, laying his hands on her shoulders, pressing his lips to the tender skin at the base of her neck.
Are you okay?
Just a cramp.
Gently, he touched the tip of a finger to each scar, forming a constellation on her skin.
How did you get these?
It’s a long story.
Tell me.
The eggs are scorching, get me a plate.
Inspired by Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop Prompt 1: Scarred. These characters appear in these stories, as well.