She was submerged in thick water…viscous and warm…dark. It was blood. Everywhere was blood: between her fingers, on her face, in her hair. Where was the surface? She needed to get to the surface. But where was it? She couldn’t see; everywhere was blood. Finally she was at the top. She made it. She screamed but nothing came out. She thrashed her body, her hands fisting, beating against the scarlet torrent, trying to make herself heard. “Oh God,” Beth gasped. It wasn’t blood surrounding her; it was wet sheets. Beth squinted into the inky darkness. Panic seized her. Was it the baby? Was she OK? Had she wet the bed? Beth reached out and laid her hand on Alejandra’s back. It rose and fell in slow cycles. Thank God. She was OK. The baby was OK. It was Beth: the sheets were drenched in her sweat. Beth sat up. It was just a dream. She pushed the sheet off her and stood. She was consumed with the desire to run. She had no idea where, she just wanted to run and run until her legs gave out.
