Just for a moment, I escape. Just for a moment, I cease to exist. Just for a moment, ecstatic inside her, I forget. Absolved. Then I see her blood on the sheets, like a blow. In the bathroom I scrub it away, but I can't clean away guilt. Staring at my reflection, I'm back there again with my child in my arms, his warm essence leaking away. Later in the hospital I remember standing in a white washroom, wiping away his blood, washing away his life.

I go back into the bedroom and look at her. She is not my wife, who won't stop grieving. Her face is screwed up; she is wounded. She saw the way I recoiled from her blood. She thinks I am disgusted by her. Our intimacy is lost, and I should explain myself. Guilt drips from me. Unable to transmit anything real I offer her "We must trust each other an awful lot". Insufficent. She pauses, pauses for too long, and then says "Yes".

I'm hyper-ventilating. I Have to get out. I should say something but I know that I can't, I know that I will never be able to. Flight. In the car I sit with my head on the steering wheel, crying without tears. When will I finish wiping away blood? When will I be cleansed?

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