He washes his hands and pulls on gloves. Seth stays close, one hand braced at my side, the other gripping the edge of the mattress hard enough that his knuckles blanch.
“I need a timeline,” the doctor steps in close. “When did the bleeding start?”
“Yesterday,” my voice sounds detached. “After they drowned me. I woke up cramping. Then it didn’t stop.”
He nods once. “Do you know how far along you are?”
“No.”
His eyes flick to Seth for half a second, then back to me.
“Any clots? Tissue?”
I swallow. “Yes.”
He adjusts the bed slightly and folds the sheet down. He places a hand low on my abdomen, pressing gently, then deeper. His fingers assess the firmness, the tenderness. I flinch despite myself.
“Pain here?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He nods again.
“Vitals are stable,” he mutters more to himself than to us. “We’ll confirm with imaging.”
He wheels the ultrasound machine closer.
Seth leans down, his forehead brushing mine.
“You don’t have to look,” he holds my hand. “I’ll do it.”
I don't answer.
The cold gel hits my skin. The probe follows, pressing just above my pelvic bone. The doctor moves it with practiced control, angling, rotating, adjusting pressure.
The machine hums. The screen flickers with shifting gray shapes.
The doctor leans closer.
Seth leans too.
“Tell me what you see,” Seth says quietly.
“I will,” the doctor replies.
He adjusts the angle again. Presses slightly deeper. Studies the monitor in silence.
Seth feels it first. His hand around mine goes rigid.
The doctor freezes for a fraction of a second, then continues scanning, slower now. He traces the area again, confirming.
“There’s no cardiac activity,” he says finally. “Measurements are consistent with approximately ten weeks.”
Seth doesn't move. He doesn't speak. His thumb brushes once over my knuckles.
The doctor keeps going. “The bleeding you described suggests this began prior to the drowning event. Your body has not completed the process. There’s retained tissue.”
Seth’s grip tightens painfully around my hand.
