[COMPLETED]
[WATTYS 2022 WINNER]
James Quinn can't die. Actually... that's not true. He's died many times - somewhere in the neighborhood of 250 - only to be reborn as himself to live his life over again.
For millennia, he's had to endure this c...
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April 5, 1997 [20]
Martha's nail chipped as she dug her fingers into the side of the tub. "Holy shit... Holy shit..." she strained between heaving breaths. "I can't do this... No fucking way..."
"You can," James soothed. "And you will. Remember, the pain means you're getting closer-"
"Godamnit James, you said that six hours ago!!"
Martha leaned over the side of her birthing tub, sitting in the living room of their home in San Francisco, purchased specifically for this day – or days with an 's'! So far, it's only been two. But who knows? Maybe it'll take three... or four... or maybe this is my life now – a wailing heifer forever torn apart from the inside!
The sun peeked over the eastern horizon as another contraction rolled down her back like a wave off an ocean of fire. It was almost comical how naive she'd been. Nope. Not almost. Or even at all. Nothing about this bullshit is funny! The thousand year old girl who'd survived broken bones, car crashes, and a gunshot to the face; who'd studied and re-studied every inch of the human body; who'd delivered dozens of babies as a doctor, herself – was in no way prepared for the sadistic ordeal Mother Nature was putting her through.
The truth, in its wicked irony, was that everything was going to plan. Eight months prior, they'd arrived safely at their secluded property just west of the Mendocino National Forest, where James had pre-contracted the plumbing and concrete foundation. Also waiting for them were the lumber, tools, and remaining supplies they'd need to build their Eden together.
For the first two months, they slept in a tent until the basic structure – a timber framed, two bedroom with a cedar shake roof – was raised. It was a considerable task for just two people. But without school or work, tv or internet, quantum exploration or existential crisis, they had the time and – it goes without saying – the experience to get the job done at an efficient pace. More importantly, they had each other. Not for a second did it feel like work.
The second trimester was spent finishing the interior then filling out the rest of their property. James built a three story treehouse and a chicken coop they'd stock once they returned for good. Martha planted a flower garden to frame the home and a vegetable patch in the front to harvest.
Satisfied with their creation, and not wanting to tempt fate, they moved back to San Francisco and civilization for the last trimester. A token visit to a gynecologist for a checkup and ultrasound confirmed the fetus was healthy. Though at Martha and James' request, the doctor kept the gender to herself.
Over the last two weeks, Martha endured three cases of Braxton Hicks until the miracle finally began one sunny Friday afternoon.
Seventeen hours later, she kneeled, praying for the end, her body bursting and her will deflated. She was eight centimeters dilated at last check, so it was far too late for an epidural. But as with the rest of her first and possibly last life as a mother, Martha had pledged to experience every last second of it – the good, the bad, and the excruciating.
