A Short Horror Story

I looked down at my bloody, shredded stomach in terror at what I had done. The skin under my fingernails was testament to the self-inflicted torture imposed at this late hour, where my hazy consciousness might otherwise not come to terms with my actions. I just wanted it to stop, and temporary relief was so much closer than a complete hiatus of agony…

And no, I am not reprising the plotline of Saw. I am merely recounting my most recent joy of child-bearing: itchy stretchmarks.

There is no end to my agony. I applied five different lotions yesterday- Five, I tell you!- and nothing soothed my ragged skin. From that icky cream my husband has to the “Just for Stretchmarks on Expecting Mothers” brand of lotion I purchased in hysteria, I have tried it all. I tried to sleep with a bag of frozen broccoli earlier, but all it did was make me cold… and itchy evermore!!

Distraction seems like a plausible option, and yet here I am, trying to distract myself, writing about the one ailment that provides me most of my discomfort nowadays (which, between my waddling and Braxton-Hicks and nightmares about birth and insomnia, is really saying something). Two weeks separate today and my baby’s “arrival”, though I am skeptical of his consideration of my due date. I refuse to think past it at this point, because it feels so long as it is…

I think the people in Saw had it easier, honestly.

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