Another contraction rippled through her body, premature, wrought by the stress of her flight. She fought it back, refused to stagger, and had she any breath left she would have wailed. No, not yet! It was too soon.
It wasn't safe.
She could hear it from behind her, coming on fast. She could smell death on its breath, rancid and decaying. She could feel it's ravenous, all-consuming hunger. For her. For what she carried within her.
A kick. Insistent. Any moment now. Wait, my sweet, please wait!
Was it the ground shaking or her knees trembling? Were her eyes burning from the tears or the sweat pouring down her cheeks? The world, little of it that she knew, revolved only around the life in her womb and the beast who sought to take it and the pain burning through her like fire. She knew she couldn't last, but she had to. She had to.
She stumbled.
It was on her in an instant. Pinned against the ground, tears flowing freely now, sobs stolen by her starving lungs, even then she fought, kicking at its immeasurable weight with strength she did not have, crying, praying.
As its fangs ripped into her stomach, tore flesh and child, precious child, from her womb, it was not the pain that overwhelmed her but the sense of failure.
She did not deserve to call herself a mother.
