His Muse Is Not Me
1.1k Views · Ongoing · Noah
"Bzz—" The phone buzzed in the cold observation room.
On the screen, Alex's voice-to-text popped up: "Sienna just borrowed your old dress to make a casting mold. Do you have to go crazy like some shrew? Get back to the apartment within half an hour—the gallery's PR copy is still waiting for you to write."
Every word was absolute defense of his "innocent little sister."
I didn't type, didn't call back, didn't even let my breathing change. Even though under the gauze, spasmodic contractions were twisting through my lower abdomen like a rusted blade.
Forty minutes earlier, metal instruments had forced my body open. The six-week-old embryo that had quietly grown in my womb while the two of them crossed every line day after day in the name of "family" and "art" had already been shredded completely by the vacuum aspiration tube and sealed into a red medical waste bag.
The nurse handed me anti-inflammatory pills. I didn't reach for water. I swallowed them dry.
My gaze slid back to that "get back here right now."
A light tap of my thumb—I muted his number, muted every one of the gallery's work groups, exited them, and blocked them.
After tearing the sweat-stained ultrasound printout into scraps and throwing them into the trash at my feet, I picked up my folding bag and pushed open the clinic door.
On the screen, Alex's voice-to-text popped up: "Sienna just borrowed your old dress to make a casting mold. Do you have to go crazy like some shrew? Get back to the apartment within half an hour—the gallery's PR copy is still waiting for you to write."
Every word was absolute defense of his "innocent little sister."
I didn't type, didn't call back, didn't even let my breathing change. Even though under the gauze, spasmodic contractions were twisting through my lower abdomen like a rusted blade.
Forty minutes earlier, metal instruments had forced my body open. The six-week-old embryo that had quietly grown in my womb while the two of them crossed every line day after day in the name of "family" and "art" had already been shredded completely by the vacuum aspiration tube and sealed into a red medical waste bag.
The nurse handed me anti-inflammatory pills. I didn't reach for water. I swallowed them dry.
My gaze slid back to that "get back here right now."
A light tap of my thumb—I muted his number, muted every one of the gallery's work groups, exited them, and blocked them.
After tearing the sweat-stained ultrasound printout into scraps and throwing them into the trash at my feet, I picked up my folding bag and pushed open the clinic door.
















































