This story may be triggering for readers who are sensitive to pregnancy and loss.

People marvel at doctors and compare them to God. 

She thinks otherwise. 

Doctors are closer compared to the modern-day executioner. There may not be a guillotine in sight but they still have a saw and knife. People surround them, marveling as they hack. Slice her open and peel her apart, she is nothing but a work of art. Except he’s an anarchist, eco-terrorist, she must be destroyed before being rebuilt. Red paint coats him and drops of yellow stain the floor. She breathes in nothing and so her mind wanders and leaks through her eyes, drips along her cheeks, and melts with the goo seeping out of her ears. She feels gloved hands push against her ribs, her heart, her spleen. Break them, break them, break them, she thinks. Mary Shelley was correct in her tale of doctors and sorrow. Of monsters and fathers. Sew a person to be a pet and they’ll surely call you father. Daddy doctor, daddy dearest, leaves a scar across her body. He wipes his brow and smiles down at the monster he fixed and sawed. 

The machines quiet down until they’re a distant hum, could I keep it, please, she asks. Though it’s dead, I’d like it around. Though it’s dead, he’s still alive.

No one has ever asked that, he marvels, clean in a new light. Sewed up she feels for her stomach and mind and repeats the request, please?

So there in a jar atop her bookshelf, on display for anyone to see, she keeps a jar of sludge. I’ll call you: Henry.

And to Henry, she’ll read, she’ll cook, and turn on the TV to his favorite show. When people come over, she will introduce them to Henry. He gets upset when she doesn’t. A tantrum from a young one is something anyone would surely care to avoid. He’ll fling things and scream. You’re just sensitive, she tells him, you get that from me.

Decomposition fills the jar and, in turn, her lungs. He is she, just as much as she is he. So when he can’t breathe, neither can she.

Like her in the summer sun, he turns darker than one would expect. You get that from me, she laughs, but you need to protect yourself. So she unscrews his lid and pulls out the clump, bathing him in sunscreen, so you don’t burn, my sweet one. 

One night, she said, I don’t feel like cooking. How about ordering a pizza instead? Henry said, yes, pizza is his favorite after all. He got skinny, she thought, so she ordered an extra large. 

In front of the TV was their favorite spot to eat. She put on a film about a boy visiting his ghost family. She and Henry sang along to the songs. Pizza oil dripped down their faces and stained their white rug. But, that’s okay, she tells him, he’s more important than the dead animal they sit on. She unscrewed Henry’s lid and braced herself for his objection. She stopped breathing and said, it’s okay. There’s no need to yell. 

But he yelled and he cried; only almost a year old now after all. He should be teething by now, she thinks, something must be wrong. Plus, the lack of eating is a sure sign of something being off. Still, she sticks the pizza in the jar. From red to gray to black, he turned. She’s ordered more sunscreen. It’s absurd, I tell you, I’m just taking care of Henry, she’d told her mom who cried at the sight. She need not worry, we’re doing quite alright.

It was the thirteenth of November, and Lawrence was coming back. He’d been gone to finish schooling, a marvel is he. The smartest boy in school, that’s why I married him. Oh, you have his eyes, she said as Henry blinked back. 

With the click of a turned key, she grabbed Henry and held him. His breath and hers lined up in the way only a mother understands. She felt his pulse grow faster with anticipation. The beautiful man walked in through the door and stopped. His breath came to a halt. I knew you’d be stunned, she cried. Isn’t he just your spitting image? she said with eyes full of desire. 

He looked at his wife: blood, thickened with time, stain under her nails. And in her hands, there is the he to whom she refers. A glass jar stained with blood and decay. Inside it is a half-formed thing. A few hairs caught in the lid of the jar are now matted with oil and her care. Sitting inside is a slice of pizza turned green. Fuzz grows from its crust and the pepperoni that sits against the thing. What looks like a nail bed is pressed against the glass but, before he looks any harder, he gags. What the hell is that, he asks, looking appalled. 

He’s your son, she answers, I understand your shock. They said we couldn’t, said impossible things. But here he is, darling. Our God-given gift. They told me to take a pill, but I didn’t, and now look. He’s perfect, I’m fine, just have a scar that resembles a hook. I cared for him all year, see. I told you I was fine. Said you didn’t need to come because I have this child of mine. He has your hair and your smile, you should hear him when he laughs. 

And with lips bitten down to the muscle, with her smile undone, she hands him this thing and says, say hello to Henry: your son.

Now it’s time for dinner, the young woman says. They pick out their favorite spoons and gather around the table, all set with the help of her perfect child. She sets Henry on a plate, he doesn’t like to be alone in there. 

And with the tip of the spoon, she carves an x out of his head and looks longingly at her husband: I think I want to try being pregnant again.

Zeinab Fakih is a Lebanese-Canadian author and poet. She has written two poetry collections titled I Didn't Know How to Say This. So, I Wrote It Down and Sweet Tea and Ketamine. Recently published in Literaria Magazine, Open Minds Quarterly, and Sidedoor Magazine, Fakih aims to explore themes of identity and the human experience. You can find her on TikTok and Instagram.