Rena
Death is coming for me. I can feel it.
I've tried to ignore this thought for hours now. I've pushed it away, told myself I'm just being dramatic. But I can't pretend anymore. The truth settles over me like a heavy blanket I can't throw off.
"I'm going to die here," I whisper into the darkness. My voice sounds strange to my own ears—weak and shaky. "No one's coming."
I'm stretched out on this thin, musty mattress that does little to cushion me from the hard floor beneath. My hands rest protectively over my swollen belly where my baby—our baby—still moves occasionally. Each little flutter feels like a miracle and a tragedy all at once.
"I'm so sorry, little one," I say, gently rubbing circles on my stomach. "This isn't what I wanted for you."
I try again to take deep breaths. In t
