The Bag Between Us

I keep telling myself the only decision that matters is whether the bag stays sealed. That sounds clean and professional. It is not clean. I am furious that Pieter can reach for me and make my body remember the frame before my mind has finished deciding what to do. I hate that my chin is bleeding where he can see it. I hate more that some part of me wants the blood to count as proof, as if I need a mark before I am allowed to trust my own account of what happened.

The contractions in the red bag keep pulling my attention back. I want the labour recorded clearly, every movement preserved, because evidence feels safer than people. The phone does not grab my hood or order me to hand anything over. I can point it where I choose. That is a pathetic little comfort, but tonight I will take it.

Elise and Karel held the chain. I owe them more than I know how to say, and gratitude makes me feel cornered almost as quickly as anger does. I want to be the woman who needs nobody. I also want someone else to keep watch for five minutes so I can stop measuring every sound against the next thing Pieter might do. I will not ask. I will press the cloth to my chin and keep recording, because that is the part I can control.