Protection

By Rin Sangar

I was fifteen, and I had a miscarriage in the bathroom stall of my school, during a maths class. The father never knew. It happened again at eighteen, and then at nineteen. Before I knew it I was buried in the panhandle, and an abortion was as likely as December snow - once in a century kind of odds. And I am a sweet, manic mess, ready to finish anyone’s drinks and let a man have his way. Then I realise I have to be smarter, better, not the prey for once. Maybe, if I try, I have too much to offer than bleeding out in a coat-hanger bath.

The day that I get my implant is the hottest day of the year. The hottest day recorded, ever. When I get on the train, the conductor makes an announcement that we may derail - the railroad tracks have swollen in the summer sun to the point that they no longer touch, and we simply have to pray that we land correctly each time the carriage is airborne. Every time I feel us lift off, I pray to a different ancestor. I stay on the train, nodding the consent to my own death sentence.

The doctor tells me they had four cancellations today, and I am so brave for coming in anyway. I do not feel brave - I feel that I have work tomorrow, and I am too much of a pussy to ask a guy to wrap it before we fuck. Sweat trickles down my back as I try not to pass out from the pain. There is no air conditioning in the office, and they lead me into a sweaty basement to perform the procedure. Maybe God can’t see us there. For the next month, I bleed every single day, anemia warping my cheeks and making me tremble in sunlight.

When I met him, he told me he loved my implant. It’s important - a man liking something I put inside myself, a decision I made to keep him at arm’s length together. He can never tame me with kids. It’s nice that he likes it.

I let him push me down and have his way. He’s playing his game in the park that I built. There is not a single line I don’t allow him to cross.