The Freedom of Death

It is nine months into my first pregnancy and I despise it. My body is

no longer mine. My face is covered in rashes, my hair is falling out,

and these shoes are hideous. My husband is caring, but I shout

and throw things. I hate this thing inside me. In the hospital, I heard the

doctor. I am losing blood. I am dying. And I felt

happy. Free from motherhood, free from the thing. I wanted to

die. I would rather die. I woke up. My husband smiled.

You did it, he said. I wish I had died.