Chapter 3

Pain was my entire world. It was a fire in my womb, a grinding pressure that threatened to split me in two. I screamed until my throat was raw, but the sound was swallowed by the thick concrete walls.

The baby was breech. I knew it. I could feel the unnatural, agonizing pressure. It wasn't coming out right. It was stuck.

I was bleeding heavily now, the cold water around me turning warm and dark.

Time lost all meaning. There was only the darkness, the cold, the smell of mildew, and the relentless, escalating torture of my own body. I prayed for it to end. I prayed for death.

Then I heard footsteps above. The lock scraped again.

A sliver of light cut through the blackness as the door opened. Hope, stupid and desperate, flared in my chest.

It was Mrs. Scott.

She stood at the top of the stairs, silhouetted against the light from the house, looking down at me like I was something she'd found stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

"Still alive?" she asked, her voice dripping with disappointment. "What a shame."

"Please," I begged, my voice a broken croak. "My baby..."

"That thing is not my grandchild," she spat. "It's a mistake. A low-class anchor Ethan tied to himself in a moment of weakness. It's better for everyone if it doesn't survive. It clears the way for him and Sabrina. They'll have beautiful, suitable children."

The cruelty of it was so absolute it was almost surreal. I couldn't process it. I just stared up at her, my mind numb with horror.

Her phone rang. It was Ethan. I could hear his voice, tinny and distant, even from the bottom of the stairs. He sounded angry. Sabrina must have lost the award.

"What do you mean she lost?" Mrs. Scott shrieked into the phone. "That little tramp from Tennessee wrote a better song? Impossible! It's your fault, Ethan! You're losing your touch!"

She listened for another moment, her face twisting into a mask of pure rage. "Don't you dare blame me! I'm here, cleaning up your mess, while you're out losing awards! You're a disappointment!"

She snapped the phone shut and glared down at me, her eyes wild. "This is all your fault," she hissed. "You and your bad luck. You've ruined everything."

She turned and disappeared for a moment. When she came back, she was holding a large plastic container. The label had a skull and crossbones on it. Barn cleaner. Lye.

"Let's clean up this mess for good," she snarled.

And then she tipped the container over.

A thick, caustic liquid rained down into the cellar. It hit the water with a violent hiss, and the air instantly filled with choking, chemical fumes.

I screamed as it splashed onto my legs, my arms, my face. It was like being set on fire. The pain was beyond anything I had ever imagined. I tried to shield my stomach, curling into a tight ball as the chemicals ate at my skin, turning the water around me into a boiling, corrosive acid.

The last thing I saw before I lost consciousness was Mrs. Scott's face, her features twisted in a triumphant sneer, as she slammed the door shut, leaving me to dissolve in the darkness.