The Undertow

Each month, the smear of first blood pulled me back, the undertow beneath my days. I kicked against the current, my head dipping below the surface in the fight against the memory of Zoe.

I had been one of four unconscious women. I was another pair of knees spread open beneath the buzzing fluorescent lights. A flood of blood spread across the tiled floor as the packing was ripped out. Two white pills and a pat on the knee. Zoe was gone.

I had left empty and silent, and that silence became me.

My mistake had been in the naming.