Wrapped in blankets, a cozy worm of chaos, L flopped at my feet while I vacced along the bed, then he leapt and slipped and cracked the back of his head on the corner of the frame.
There was so much blood.
By the time I killed the vac, 7-8-9 thick drops pooled into splotches on his Pokémon shirt. I scooped him up, clutching my baby, clamping his wound and his head to my chest deep breaths, deep breaths while he screamed red murder. The stench of blood was making me sick and I tried to hide it, my nausea and the fact of it, the raw wet hurt so he wouldn’t panic, holding him close. Holding him in.
30,000 dead.
I think about it every day.
What I would do to keep my child safe.
He’s fine.
I’m not.
We live in a fantasy.
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