The first thing was the screaming.

It is the first thing I remember. It was followed on its heels by the pain. God, the pain. It radiated from within me like a creature that was alive trying to rend its way free. A dull echo of it was mirrored in my head, the makings of a horrid headache and the screaming just agitated it further.

The sound of the screaming was one of mourning, one of loss, embittered by pain and sorrow. It was haunting, wails interspersed by low keening cries. I wanted it to shut up, to cease, wanted my head to be spared the pain of listening to that sound over and over and over.

The stillness was the next thing I remember. I felt like I couldn't move, but something inside of me should have been. There should have been the butterfly feeling of kicks, the pressure on my bladder that I'd once joked was my unborn son's way of already torturing me. Why wasn't the baby moving? It wasn't just that there was no movement, something felt wrong.

It was then that the memories started to rain in, one drop at a time, each one a moment so that felt like I was living it over again. Each moment so horrible that it made my heart seize up with fear again. I could picture the woman, her short hair and her awkward build. She'd seemed like the typical citizen you see in this city, and that wasn't saying much.

The woman had been so interested in my pregnancy, had wanted to question me and touch my stomach. When I drew back she'd stumbled after me as if drawn by the pull of my son. There was something amiss in her actions, something that made me continue to step away. With each of my tiny steps backwards she'd follow until she'd finally bent down and lifted up a piece of an old cinder block.

The action made no sense, just like the world ceased to make sense after the block had been lifted and brought down in her hand to resound against my skull. That wasn't when the fear had started, but that is when I knew it was justified. I begged and pleaded, fighting back, drawing the blade I always kept with me for protection. That was just what she wanted though, a tool. I gave it over to her, the one thing she needed.

With my own knife the woman struck at me again, rendered me so blinded by pain, nausea, and dizziness from the head injury that she was able to drag me into some old, decayed warehouse. The building had a stench to it. It was cold and wet, damp, and added a palpable aura to my fright.

It is there that my memories ran together like the blood that poured from my head, or that later poured from my stomach. There was pain, more pain than I had ever known, and every face that I had ever loved danced in my vision as I tried to cling to them in a fear that I'd never see them again. I was cold, so cold. She'd cut away my shirt, used it to swaddle my son after she'd cut him away from me too.

And then she was gone.

I don't know how I got out of there. I don't know where I am now. I just know I am in pain, and there is a stillness in me where my son used to exist. I want to sit up, to tell the woman screaming to shut up, to stop echoing the torment that was inside of me! To stop sounding the bells of my grief.

It was then that I realized the screams were my own.