She did it on purpose while you were gone. She never wanted you. She would never want your child.
I want to hit her. I want to make her bleed and make her look like how I feel inside. I want her to sleep in a mess of blood and tissue. But I hold it in. Because something has been growing inside of me. Something I can't purge or abort. And it's changing me. But not everything changes—the rage that has slowly aged within me since before I could even speak. The impulses, the ones I can't control because something happened to me when that car collided with my body and my head hit that pavement. The emotions, because love is hate—my cruel father whom I so desperately wanted to look at me with pride, my mother who cared so much she made me into this fucking freak—so I can't tell the difference between the two. All that energy has to go somewhere. It can't stay in me. It has to go out. It has to be transferred.
I pull away from her and grab the chair—my chair—and I pick it up and slam it down on the ground.
She screams and pushes herself further into the corner, leaving a small trail of blood on the floor.
I do it over and over, growling, screaming, until the chair is just two detached arms in my hands. I throw them to the ground, but I am not sated.
“You did this!” I scream, pointing down at her.
“No…no!” she shouts.
But it doesn't matter. I have to do this. I don't know any other way. She thinks I'm trying to hurt her, but she doesn't understand that this outburst is keeping her safe.
I grab the record player and throw it against the wall. The plastic, metal, and wood explode violently. I kick the bathroom door open, so that it splinters and rips off the hinges.
“I'm sorry!” she cries.
“Shut up!” I shout.
I spin to face the crib, my pathetic display. A symbol of what a fucking sucker I am. I kick it over and over, the wood splintering and buckling under my feet. I tear up the whole place. This illusion. She doesn't want me. She doesn't want any of this.
“I didn't do it, Sam! I had a miscarriage. I wanted it too,” she wails.
But I am blind. Nothing quells the rage. I want blood. Blood for blood. I want to kill. And I can't kill her. I can't.
I stagger out of the shed, marching back to the main house. I'm all instinct now. No. Instinct is about survival. I am rabid. Feral. I want to make pain.
I flail the door open to the barn and charge towards Hilda. Any other time, I would've chosen to kill a person over my goats.
Hilda and Trixie bleat frantically as I drag Hilda to the other end of the barn. Beverly huffs and neighs. The energy in here is frenetic, like they know everything that is to come.
I tie Hilda's legs up and hang her.
I hold the knife up to slit her throat, but instead of carving into her, without hesitation, I turn the knife onto myself, placing the blade against one of the many thick scars on my forearm, slicing into it, watching the old wound reopen. Slicing Hilda up won’t bring the resolution I need. Someone has to be the recipient of this wrath, and a goat wouldn’t even be close to worthy. But I am worthy. There is no blood at first, and then it flows at once, a crimson river running down to my wrist, palm, and then onto the floor of the barn. I walk over to the many tools hanging in the barn and find my weathered reflection on a sickle.
I find the next scar. I press the knife against it and I cut. I do it to feed the beast inside of me.
I cut into another scar. I feel the sharp edge slice into the sinew. I know it’s painful, but it’s nothing compared to the burning fire inside of me trying to escape through each wound I add to my body. I watch as the color of my skin morphs to scarlet, as the sheen of sweat becomes overpowered by the glistening of blood.
The animals cry and rustle as they smell the fury ooze out of me. Their cries feed the cycle. I try to make the feelings dissipate through these cuts, but with each new one, I see blood, and I think of it lying on the floor. Of the fantasy she held in her womb, of all the power she has, and I want to hurt her. So I have to do it again.
There is no relief. I still feel. I still rage. I still hurt.
When my torso and hands are too soaked with blood to find more scars, when I realize that no amount of cuts will stop my hands from shaking with the urge to hurt, I stop.
I amble over to Hilda and slice at the rope. She hits the floor on a heap and wriggles on her side until she is back on her feet. She staggers over to Trixie, screeching in terror.
I allowed myself to believe I could be something else, but this is how it always ends up. With screams. With fear.
All I want is her. All that can make this pain stop is the source. Like a fog clearing, I remember her. The girl who scrambles me up so that I can't figure out who I am when she's around. She makes me feel like I can reconcile all these mismatched parts of me. I remember her. Coiled on the floor, terrified. The pretty little smiling doll in the white dress soaked in blood, her face marked with terror and sorrow.
I left her back there.
Alone.