Afterbirth by Belinda Frisch Read Free Book Online Page B

room labeled Pre-Admission Testing, and crab-crawled inside, thankful for the cleaner, dryer space. The setting sun through the window warmed her as the contractions hit in rhythmic waves, barely seconds apart. Filthy and soaked, she slipped out of her soiled dress and gasped. The imprint of a face pressed from inside of her belly. The baby’s head should have been down, ready for birth. She convinced herself it was a hallucination brought on by the pain, but when the next cramp hit, it was there again, this time, accompanied by a pair of hands. Ten tiny bulges appeared and the blood flow between her legs increased to the point that she became dizzy.
    The room spun, the blue specs on the wallpaper dancing to the pace of her quickening heartbeat.
    “Someone, please help me.” She shivered, becoming cold as her life drained from her. She slumped against the far wall of the small examination room, wearing only a bra and canvas sneakers. The intense pain sent her into shock and all of her strength drifted away. Her stomach expanded and stretched until the tiny being broke through. A flood of black fluid and blood erupted from the opening. Tiny, disfigured hands reached for the sunlight as a set of needle-like teeth widened the opening.
    The examination room door opened and the last thing she saw through a haze of prolonged death was a Nixon Center uniform and Max Reid lifting the grotesque infant from inside of her.

CHAPTER 12
     
    Allison lifted her gown and examined the painful site where a dozen tiny bruises and needle marks peppered her fair skin. Nixon’s most recent injection had been applied with such force and at such an unusual angle that it had left not only a hole, but a wound that was now at risk of becoming infected.
    She should’ve known better than to fight him.
    The side-effects she’d managed to avoid for the past ten days were slowly coming back. She pushed herself up on her elbows and twisted until her legs dropped over the side of the cot. She tried to sit up and nearly slid to the floor.
    “You can beat this,” she said, lifting her left leg and then her right. One, two… Not even three repetitions. The muscle tone that took almost two weeks to build had been destroyed with a single, toxic dose of the mysterious “treatment”.
    Keys jangled on the other side of the door and the lock opened with the usual clunk . Her mind raced with thoughts: check for the guard, get under the covers, try and play sick. But there was no playing. She felt awful.
    The door closed and she looked over her shoulder at Ben.
    “Allison, what are you doing up?” He lifted her legs onto the cot and coaxed her to lie down.
    Ragdoll limp and in a state of mild, transient confusion, she complied. “I was getting better,” she whispered.
    Ben put the digital thermometer under her tongue and she winced at the probing.
    “101.” Ben handed her two pills and lifted her head so that she could take them. He held a cup of water to her lips and poured a sip she wasn’t ready for. She coughed and grabbed his injured wrist. He let out a howl and spilled the water all over the bed and himself.
    “Shit.” He took off his blue lab coat and blood seeped through his bandage. He sat down at the supply tray and unwrapped the wet dressing.
    “I’m sorry,” she said, her throat dry and her voice raspy.
    She felt terrible about what happened, but by the time she realized what Nixon meant to do, how he was about to stick an enormous, antique needle into Ben’s artery and bleed him, it had been too late. Telling him that she was all right would have only pushed up her next treatment and would have made her look like a liar. She’d have never been able to postpone them again.
    “Goddamned Nixon. This isn’t World War II.”
    The realization hit her that Ben was, in some ways, as much Nixon’s victim as she was. He was opening up and she hoped it would get her some answers.
    “I was getting better. Why did you let him do this to me