The pain wakes me up.
Fuck.
I groan, clutching my stomach, and roll onto my other side in a desperate attempt to get comfortable. No luck. It feels like something is clawing at my insides.
Sighing, I open my eyes and I swear they make the sound of shattering glass. I glance over at the steady red glow of my bedside clock: 3:29. Damn, couldn’t even make it through the night.
Where did I…?
But before I can finish the thought, another wave of pain crashes over me, and I force myself into the fetal position, hugging my knees to my chest. My heart pounds wildly. The pain is excruciating. I start to sweat. The room spins.
Fucking period cramps, ugh. I massage my belly with my fingertips, and squeeze my eyes shut tight, hoping for some relief. Nothing’s gonna happen if you don’t take some meds. I roll back over to my nightstand and realize the bottle of pills isn’t there.
Goddamn it. Left them in the kitchen. After nearly a full year of intense periods like this, you’d think I’d have learned my lesson. I close my eyes and let out another long sigh. I lay there, miserable in the silent darkness for a few more moments before the pain becomes unbearable.
Fine. Time to get up. I try to open my eyes again but they want to stay glued shut. I manage to pry one open, with effort, then the other. As my dark room comes into focus, I notice something that shouldn’t be there: a tall shadow in the open doorway. It isn’t moving, just, standing there, staring.
Standing? Staring? It’s a shadow. I blink hard. Once. Twice. Just your robe hanging off the corner of the door, idiot. Now get up.
With an almighty heave, I throw my body out of bed like a ragdoll. The force almost sends me flying face-first into my bedroom floor. Real nice, Lacey. I catch myself on the lip of the mattress just before impact, and steady my legs. The movement disturbs Hank, my bloodhound, who until a second ago was curled tightly in a ball in his bed in the corner. He lifts his head lazily, and a single, droopy eyelid slowly raises as he sets his one-eyed gaze on me.
“I’m fine, don’t need your help.” I say, cringing as I stand fully upright. In response, Hank’s eyelid closes up shop again and his head returns to its spot on the bed.
My dad gave me Hank when I was eighteen. He died the next summer. It’s been just ’ol Hank and me ever since. Sure, he’s ancient at this point, nearly twelve, but he’s still clever like a fox. They say Bloodhounds have three hundred times the number of sensory receptors that humans do. Imagine? Perceiving your world with three hundred times more….. perception? I shudder at the thought.
I think about how my own senses are heightened during my period. How loud sounds put me on edge, or how certain foods I normally love make me feel nauseous, or how I have to take out the half-full garbage from three rooms over because the subtle smell is overwhelming to me.
Ha, we have more in common right now than I thought, buddy.
I am briefly thankful that I only have to deal with this type of sensory assault once a month - Hank lives like this. I crouch down to give his head a pat and immediately regret it. A shooting pain, like a bolt of lightning, causes me to nearly collapse.
OK, steady, let’s get some drugs.
I’ve had pretty wicked periods since I was a kid. Not just lower-abdomen cramps, no. My entire saddle cramps up. And not all at once, that would be too easy. Instead, each individual muscle dances to its own rhythm, spontaneously contracting without warning, painfully out of sync with its neighbors. I once described it to an ex-boyfriend as “wearing a diaper full of bees.” I was being sarcastic at the time, but it’s not far off.
Recently, however, my periods have been much, much worse. Starting early this year, my cramps intensified to the point of agony. I passed out at work from the pain. I stopped sleeping. I couldn’t eat. That’s when my doctor started prescribing me these high-dose painkillers. The opioids. The narcotics. The good stuff. Those drugs really take the edge off, but man do they do a doozy on the rest of my system. For nearly a year I have been having to control my period pain with these pills, while simultaneously enduring their side-effects.
Suffice it to say, it has not been a fun time.
With no small effort, I am upright again. I shuffle down the long hallway without turning on the lights - even the idea of overhead lighting sends me into sensory overload. I navigate the familiar darkness easily, and swing a left into the kitchen. My apartment is E-shaped, the top arm of the “E” is my bedroom. The middle is the kitchen. The lower arm is the dining room/living room combo. A long hallway connects them all along the E’s spine and houses a bathroom between the kitchen and my bedroom.
The kitchen lights are on dimmers, so I risk some illumination. Fuck, that’s bright. I squeeze my eyes shut and dim the lights further. Ok, you’re on a mission. Stay focused. As if in agreement, the pain surges again, and I double over. Breathe. In and out. I wait for it to abate, crack my eyes open, and scan the kitchen. The bottle of painkiller is still sitting on the counter where I left it the previous evening. I take the three steps to its edge, agonizingly slow. Each movement is an effort. Finally, I reach the counter, snag the bottle, and wrench it open with shaking fingers. I frantically dump some little white pills into my hand and swallow them dry, pressing my back against the cool surface of the fridge.
Mission accomplished, I slide down the fridge to the floor, sprawling my bare legs on the cool tile, feeling the reassuring hum of the machine behind me, sensing its subtle vibrations pulsing through my exhausted muscles, helping them relax. My classic, go-to position during my period. But I can’t take the credit for it. That belongs to my mom.
My mom died when I was born, so my dad raised me entirely on his own. I got my first period when I was eleven years old and it was a week of abject misery before dad remembered my mom’s old trick: sitting with her back against the refrigerator. She swore that the coolness, the humming, and the vibrations were the perfect trifecta of treatment for her ails. Distractedly, I wonder if she would have sat down here with me. Despite my pain, I manage a smile.
Hank’s wrinkly face nosing at my chin wakes me up. Damn, those painkillers must have done the trick. Like I said, this year, my periods have been worse than ever. My doctor had chalked it up to my “changing body.”
Cheers to turning thirty, the year your body turns against you. I muster a chuckle.
Hank whines, needing to go outside. Reluctantly, I brace my hands against the cool sanctuary of the floor and hoist myself into a standing position.
The pain has diminished, but the nausea, vertigo, and sweats have returned in full force. I barely make it out of the kitchen before my vision starts blurring. Swaying slightly, I steady myself against a tall hallway table. At my hips, Hank’s one remaining eye looks up at me, as if concerned, and he lets out a single bark. I reach out to pat his head and realize he’s not looking at me, but behind me, into my bedroom.
A low growl rumbles from his throat. I freeze, memories of the tall shadow standing in the doorway return to me.
Unable to move, half bent over the table, I sense it, behind me. Another bark from Hank, this time, a clear warning. The little hairs on my neck stand up. Like ice frosting up a window, a chill creeps along my spine. There is movement behind me, but no sound. Like a subtle gust of wind. Felt, but not heard. Finally released from my fear’s frozen grasp, I whip my head around, emboldened by Hank’s presence.
The dark, empty hallway stares back at me.
Wow, Lace, how many of those happy pills did you take? I give my head a rough shake to bring me back to reality, and turn to look at Hank.
“What’s your excuse, buddy?” He cocks his head and looks at me with his one droopy eye and barks again. I turn around in the direction he’s barking and see his leash and harness draped over the linen closet’s handle. Right. That makes sense. Maybe it’s time for some lights.
Bracing myself for the sting of the overhead lighting, I flip the switch. My pupils retreat on instinct, temporarily blinding me. I grope around for Hank’s leash and hear the familiar, comforting sound of his paws trotting towards the front door. I follow him there and am surprised to see through the windows that the sun is starting to come up.
Those pills really knocked ya out, huh? We should send Dr. Mengel a fruit basket as thanks.
Until he had prescribed the narcotics, sleeping at all during this time of the month had been an impossibility. I was thankful for the assistance, even if it meant some subtle hallucinations. I snap Hank’s leash onto his collar and open the door into the morning light.
______________________________________________________________
The pain wakes me up.
Fuck. But this time, the pain isn’t centered in my lower belly - no. Those cramps are still there, but they have taken a background seat to the newly urgent, pressing pain in my chest. No, not my chest, I realize as my conscious brain slowly hones in on the source of the pain, my… tits? As if in answer, a crushing, squeezing ache overcomes both of them. Ugh, I never had tender breasts during my period before this year. Fuck you, thirty.
I crack an eye and glance at the clock: 3:29. Again? Guess all that bullshit about circadian rhythms is true.
I roll onto my back and massage my breasts with both hands. It’s no use.
Time for some more pills.
I slide to the edge of the bed and place my feet on the carpet. As I stand, I am completely overtaken by a violent wave of nausea. Bolting to the bathroom, I barely have time to fling open the toilet lid before emptying the contents of my stomach into the bowl. I heave and heave for what seems like decades, thick liquid filling the basin, until there’s nothing left.
Being a girl suuuuuuuucksss I think as I drag my sleeve across my mouth and flush the toilet.
Suddenly, I am struck with the strange thought that my puke smells wrong. Not like puke, but more like something else familiar, something awful.
Fucking sensory overload. Of course it smells like shit. Everything smells like shit when you’re bleeding.
Bracing my hands against the cool porcelain rim, I slowly pull myself into a standing position. The room spins once, twice, and I sit down on the edge of the tub, face in my hands, until everything stabilizes. When things finally come to a halt and my brain catches up with my nose, I realize the awful smell hasn’t gone away, despite flushing. Curious, I flip on the light.
Blood. The bowl, the rim, the backsplash, my pajama sleeve. All are splattered in thick, nearly black blood. It clings to the surface of the bowl, slowly making its way down the curved walls, into the clear water at the base. Tiny round flecks found their way to the underside of the lid, violently flung open when I fell in here. My sleeve is dripping from the spot where I wiped my face clean. The smell of blood is heavy in the air, quickly saturating the small room.
The smell… I scramble to rush out of the bathroom before I start heaving again. In my haste, I nearly catapult myself headfirst over Hank, who is standing directly outside the door, like a guard. His one good eye rolls over to me, concerned. You and me both, buddy. I sigh and head to the kitchen, wondering whether I should take prescription painkillers after having thrown up blood.
Blood, why am I throwing up blood? Guess it’s time to give Dr. Mengel a call. Then, another thought: It’s four a.m., Lace, maybe we wait a few hours.
But I’m in pain now, so the choice is made for me. I snatch the bottle off the counter, spill some pills into my hand, and force them down. Taking up my position in front of the fridge, I beckon Hank to my side. He curls up, like a cat, nestling into my right hip. I pat his head, and lean my own against the cold door.
I don’t realize I dozed off until I wake up to a small sound. It’s not one of the normal sounds my apartment makes, but it’s not unfamiliar to me. Eyes closed, I raise my ear to the dark, empty house, waiting to hear it again. There it is. Crying. It’s a baby crying. A baby crying very far away. In another apartment. I keep listening, straining almost, to hear the sound more clearly.
But it’s not really a baby, is it? It sounds more like a wailing animal.
I notice that Hank, too, has heard it. Still curled in a ball, only his two floppy ears, raised and listening, give away the fact that he’s on alert. That’s weird, I think, is it getting louder?
Unmistakably, the high-pitched sound is increasing in frequency. Hank, in answer to my unspoken question, raises his head fully now, and stares out into the darkness. He lets out a low whine and turns to look at me. Not knowing what to tell him, I cup my hands over his big ears. You’re feeling this way worse than me, huh buddy? But the sound is getting even louder now. No, not louder, I think, closer. It’s coming from inside the apartment. I’m forced to move my hands from Hank’s ears to my own at this point, my heightened period senses causing me physical distress. Shaking, I get up, and Hank matches my movements.
Look at us, scared as shit and in pain, but ready to take on the night. I realize for about the millionth time this week how grateful I am to have Hank.
The sound has reached a fever pitch, having fully morphed into an inhuman yowl. There is no doubt in my mind now that it’s coming from my bedroom. As one unit, Hank and I slowly make our way to the intersection of the kitchen and the hallway. Already the scent of blood from the bathroom is heavy in my nostrils. I know Hank can smell it three hundredfold. The sound and the smell … burden me. They are assaultive. I can feel the sound, I can taste the smell. The screaming - jagged and sharp - the blood - metallic and salty. It’s all too much.
I’m going to pass out, I think. But I don’t, and neither does Hank. If he can handle this, so can I. My resolve hardened, we resume our journey down the hallway. The closer we get to the bedroom, the louder the sound becomes. It’s all-consuming now as I approach the doorway, shrieking coming from everywhere at once. The whole world is screaming, I think absently. Hank whines quietly at my side and I catch his eye.
We’re in this together.
I raise my head to look back through my bedroom doorway, and I see the long, tall shadow of a man standing at the foot of my bed. He hasn’t noticed us, he’s focused on something in the bed that I can’t see. It’s too dark to make out any of his features, but his body language is strange. He’s slightly hunched over, arms out before him, and he’s moving slowly back and forth.
Wait a minute, is he holding something …?
Suddenly, his head whips up to stare directly at me and I see two dark eyes like pits. His movement silences the screaming in my ears like he flipped a switch. I swear I see him smile, even in the darkness, but Hank is already bounding into the room like a cannonball, howling. In the split second I tear my eyes away from that endless stare, distracted by Hank, the figure vanishes. Hank, confused, stops short halfway into the room, still barking like mad, his one good eye scanning as his head whips around, searching for the intruder. His muzzle disappears under my bedskirt.
You saw him too, huh, buddy? I shake my head, last night I was sure it was the medication causing me to feel and hear things that weren’t there but … if Hank is seeing them too…? What did it mean?
I shudder, still unsure of what I saw. Hank, meanwhile, tail wagging, emerges from his half-hidden position under my bed. In his wrinkly mouth is a mouse. Pleased with himself, Hank presents me the trophy, and slinks back to his bed in the corner. I stare at the dead rodent.
Oh, that’s what you saw, huh buddy? I shake my head, the events of the last few minutes quickly fading into that foggy space between dreams and memories. Still, I think, maybe I sleep on the couch tonight.
_________________________________________
The pain wakes me up.
Fuck. It’s excruciating. It feels like my organs are waging war and the battlegrounds are my insides. My tits are tender again, but not quite as bad as last night. That’s weird, I think as I raise a hand to massage them, why is my shirt wet? But the thought is abruptly overtaken by a new wave of stabbing pain in my abdomen. Why have I not learned to keep these damn pills by my bed?
As if in reply, my stomach rumbles loudly and I realize I am starving along with everything else. When I went to see Dr. Mengel earlier today, he told me that it’s possible the medication caused a stomach ulcer - which explained last night’s blood vomiting episode - but he also told me that an ulcer can cause extreme fatigue, changes in my appetite, and new cravings. Yeah, as if my fucken cramps weren’t enough.
Groaning, I start to roll over but my body makes contact with something solid. It’s warm and … familiar. No, I think, impossible. Lacey. You’re losing it. There is no one in bed with you. Wake the fuck up.
I force myself to finish the roll, hell, I’ll roll right through this motherfucker, but of course, no one’s there. Momentarily disoriented, I manage to stop myself just before I roll off the edge of the bed entirely.
Lace, get a grip, and get your meds. I sit up and plant my feet on the floor. The clock on my nightstand glows red like a beacon in the darkness: 3:30. Every fucken time.
I make my way into the kitchen, leaving Hank curled up in his bed.
I go to grab the bottle off of the counter, but something stops me before I finish the movement. It’s a sharp pain from my stomach, accompanied by a deep, low growl. Fuck, I’m starving. Turning to the fridge instead, I swing open the door and examine its contents.
Leftover steak from dinner: bingo. I reach into the fridge and pull the steak out of the foil with my bare hands. I eat it, like a mutton leg, cold, and lean back against the cool surface. I devour the steak but my belly is still grumbling. Back into the fridge: chicken wings from two nights ago. These, I eat, too, leaning up against the fridge, hunched over my food like a famished gremlin in the night. Not enough. Back to the fridge - fuck, what’s left? The remaining options are meager. Two tomatoes, half a head of lettuce, an unopened package of ground beef for burgers, a jar of marmalade, half a dozen eggs, and some orange juice.
I suddenly double over in pain. Hunger pangs. My stomach churns and grinds, not yet satisfied, still hungry for more, and now demanding it. Fine, ugh, what … tomatoes? No. I know what it wants.
Without thinking, I reach back into the fridge and pull out the raw meat. I scoop handful after handful directly into my mouth, unable to stop myself. Before I know what’s happened the entire package is devoured.
Lacey what …. what the fuck? What the fuck was that?
My thoughts are interrupted by the sudden and violent urge to vomit. Racing to the bathroom, I barely make it to the bowl before the heaves overtake my body. I retch and retch until I collapse in a heap next to the bowl. Only … nothing came out? Each heave had wracked my body but it had all been … dry?
I just ate nearly three pounds of meat and not a single thing came out of me when I puked.
I sit up and lean back against the wall opposite the toilet. I look down at my belly, the source of all my problems. It seems to look back, the cycloptic eye of my navel passing silent judgment over me. Over my actions. Of course you fucking heaved what the hell did you just eat? But even as I think it, I realize I feel … good? I feel good. I feel full. The pain is even down to a dull throb, and I’m pretty sure I forgot to take my meds.
I’m hit with a wave of intense fatigue. My battle with the heaves left me severely depleted. On my hands and knees, I make my way back to my bedroom.
________________________________________
I wake up to the sound of a baby crying.
No, that’s not right. I shake my head as I come to. Hmm, must have dreamed it.
I steal a glance at my bedside clock: 3:29. Here we go again. I feel the steady pulse of my heartbeat throbbing in my stomach, in my hips, in my groin. My muscles are on fire again, my lower belly feels like it’s full of jagged teeth. There are daggers in my asshole. Everything hurts.
Let’s go get some happy pills.
Yesterday I called Dr. Mengel to discuss the … um … meat episode from the night before. Thankfully he told me that it makes complete sense because as my body sheds red blood cells and loses blood volume, it loses iron and all the nutrients that come from red blood. So, it made sense that my body would crave what it was needing: red meat. He said that in the last few months, as my periods have gotten more intense, this craving too, has intensified. It likewise made sense that my body would then try to reject it (the heaving) because it’s not used to processing raw animal meat. He gave me a new prescription to curb my cravings and sent me on my merry way.
Too bad he didn’t prescribe me any pills to remind myself to keep the painkiller on the fucking nightstand.
Rolling my eyes at my own forgetfulness, I slide out of bed and head toward the kitchen.
I don’t make it. Halfway down the hallway, I double over in pain, the strike of a lightning bolt echoing down my spine. Fuck me, dude. Maybe I really should think about a hysterectomy.
I’d tried to bring it up with Dr. Mengel when my period symptoms intensified earlier this year. I didn’t want to have to keep living each of my periods in this much agony. Dr. Mengel was able to talk me out of it, reminding me that, at age 30, I still had time to have children. Besides, I remember him saying, I’m sure this type of severity won’t last forever. In fact, he was certain that by the end of the year I would be free of my misery.
Well, here we are, nearly ten months later, and we’re still fucking miserable. I made a mental note to call Dr. Mengel in the morning to discuss other treatment options. Taking a deep, steadying breath, I manage to re-stack my spine, brick by brick, into an upright position. I shuffle to the kitchen, grab the bottle of pills, and it’s all I can do not to upend the entire container directly into my mouth. Instead, true to form, I shake out a handful and pop them in, swallowing them dry.
I replace the bottle on the counter, turn around, and am greeted by the sight of Hank, who must have been disturbed by my episode in the hallway, coming to check on me. You’re just the best buddy, huh? I crouch, pull Hank close to me, and nuzzle my face into his shoulder.
“You’ll make me feel better, won’t ya, bud?” I tell him as I take up my post against the fridge. At some point, Hank’s rhythmic snores lull me to sleep.
I have a dream. In it, I (adult me) am curled up on the couch with my head in my mom’s lap. She’s stroking my hair and telling me that everything’s okay. That I shouldn’t worry about anything. That I am in good hands. That all is going to plan.
I wake up with a brief feeling of safety and comfort that is quickly overtaken by fear as I tune into the high-pitched wail filling my apartment. Hank hears it too, he’s up on his feet already. I follow suit.
For reasons unknown even to me, before heading into the hallway to find the source of the sound, I pivot and grab a kitchen knife from the block on the counter. The feel of the cold handle in my grip and Hank’s hot breath at my hips give me courage. Together, we slowly inch toward the hall, toward the source of the sound, which now echoes throughout the apartment.
As we reach the intersection of the hallway, movement from my left makes me flinch, but Hank, ever the guard dog, takes off towards it. I chase him down the dark hallway, knife in hand, round the corner into the living room and stop dead. There, in the middle of the room, illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the windows, is an old-fashioned cradle. Its jet black bassinet is decorated with frilly black lace and stands on four tall, thin legs that end in claws. Hank, who has also stopped in front of me with one leg raised, lets out a low whine. What the actual fuck?
I don’t realize that the wailing sound has stopped until my ears pick up a new sound. This one is … softer, gentler. It’s the tinny metal plinking of a music box. The song is familiar somehow, and its notes fill me with an unexpected, but not unwelcome, feeling of peace. My muscles relax and I feel the knife slip from my grasp. Even Hank puts down his pointing paw and perks up at the music. My eyelids start to droop and I am vaguely aware of a presence behind me. I feel a tender, yet firm pressure on my shoulder, and for some reason, I’m not scared. The pressure turns into a grip and I feel long, thin fingers wrap themselves around my upper arm.
The music has stopped.
Broken from my trance, I spin around and come face to face with thin air. Hank mimics my movements, but my frantic heartbeat is the only sound in the apartment. I turn back to look at the cradle, but it’s gone. The moonlight has been replaced with the first strands of dawn creeping over the horizon. These fucking pills are no joke, I think as I shake my head.
I look down at Hank.
“Time to start the day, buddy.”
_________________________________________
I wake up to the sound of a baby crying.
Its small, gnarled claws have ripped their way through my abdomen. It made its way into the world by gnawing through the space where my navel once was with tiny, dagger-like teeth.
All around me, in a circle, stand hooded figures. At the foot of my bed are two people I recognize. One is my mother. Well, she’s somehow both my mother and not my mother. There’s something not quite right about her. The other figure is Dr. Mengel. In his hands he holds that … thing that just clawed and gnashed its way out of me. But they’re not looking at me, no. They’re looking expectantly at the doorway.
And as the room around me fades to black, I see a shadowy figure with eyes like pits enter. Dr. Mengel quickly crosses the space and hands him the mewling babe. I swear I hear a whisper,
“Daddy’s here, little one. Shhh.. daddy’s here.”
_________________________________________________________
I wake up to the sound of birds chirping - the sun is streaming through my bedroom window.
Huh, no cramps.
Suddenly remembering the events of last night, I throw off the covers and scramble to get out of my pants. I run my hands frantically up and down my belly, searching for any sign of the carnage from the night before.
Of course, there’s nothing there.
These fucken pills. I laugh at myself. Well, I feel great. Guess we’re done with this cycle.
I make my way into the bathroom and confirm that I’m no longer bleeding. My fatigue is also gone. I feel refreshed in a way I haven’t in months. I think back to Dr. Mengel telling me he didn’t think I would still be having such intense periods by the end of the year. I smile and think, he might be right.