Pictures. They’re spread across the doctor’s table, I watch as he takes one picture at a time and shows it to me.

He’s wrong, the person who did this to me isn’t in any of these pictures, because, he’s staring right at me.

The doctor sighs and leans back, he looks clearly frustrated, or is he putting on an act?

I sigh too, a sign that I’m too tired to carry on playing this useless game of pictures, when I know he isn’t in any of them.

Does he really not recognize me? Is he putting on an act?

He pushes his chair back and leaves my private ward, when the door shuts close, I breathe again. I didn’t realize I’ve been holding my breathe till now.

Tears, hot and quick, stream down my face as soon as I register the fact that I lost my son. I touch the huge incision on my stomach, and wail for the first time since I woke up, three days ago.

Nurses come rushing in, I’m sure my rippling screams brought them here. When they realize nothing is wrong, they look at me with pity, then quietly leave the room, leaving me to myself.