Trembling With Fear 3-17-24

Matriphagy, by Miley Chen

When I am told that I will give birth to a god, I cry. The Fathers say it should be our honor as shrine maidens, but I can’t help the tears that run down my face. Gods are born hungry after all, and powerful gods are born hungrier still. 

My flock of Sisters never thought the god-child would “grace” us. We were the least pious, the least respectful, and the most curious. In retrospect, maybe that is why the god-child chose us, so our questions could be punished with brutal answers.  

There is no better sacrifice to a god than its mother, so I will be the first offering. If I leave, I will never hear the clamor of the capitol or smell the sweet aroma of nectarines in summertime. I will be called a traitor for thousands of generations. If I stay, the Fathers will feed my Sisters to the monster and allow the god to gorge itself upon my family in all but blood. I wonder if my Sisters snuck out into the sea of stargazer lilies tonight; they were always beautiful illuminated by the moon’s light. 

I take a step.

By the end of the first day, I want to vomit. My legs are sore, my vision is blurry, and my stomach aches.

By the end of the second day, I find an alcove that will serve as my grave. My resting place will be unmarked, and I think the Fathers would tell me to pray. They would tell me to pray for the salvation that their last rites would have given me, but I prayed all my life, and I still have a god in my belly. 

At the beginning of the third day, I want to vomit for an entirely different reason. My back aches, I taste the acid in my mouth, and I hear something tear. My water must’ve broken, it’s broken, IT’S BROKEN—someone is screaming.

I’m screaming. 

I try to stand, but I slip on something and everything feels sickly, slickly, wet. As I roll over, I see my stomach writhe. The spatter of sickly yellows and pinks and reds mark the site of a terrible consecration. Claws chew through my stomach like mealworms, and there’s a squelch, squelch, squelching. A god is peeling itself from me, recklessly carving out chunks of my flesh as it tries to climb out. It gnaws and clutches whatever it can reach, desperate to suckle on the sap of my flesh or play with my sinew and skin. As I begin to shut my eyes, my stomach jerks. The babe just stops. Its arms, the same as a human’s, are flailing around in the open air, and I feel its legs kick, kick, kicking inside of me. The infant divinity is like a butterfly stuck halfway out of its cocoon.

I don’t know why, but I timidly cradle the god. In response, it reaches for me, clutches my hair and wails. I do not know how long this goes on for, but eventually the god’s wails turn into raspy gasps and silent tears. This is wrong. Gods are unstoppable. I should not see fear in my god’s eyes. A baby should never have so much fear in their eyes. 

It’s crying. My baby is crying.

He shivers. There is nothing I can offer except for myself, so I poke and prod and pull at the many wounds in my stomach until I can swaddle him in my intestines. My baby seizes them like a beloved doll, seeks my blood as if it was a warm blanket, screams when it’s not enough. I should be screaming too, but his grip feels like a hug. He is beautiful, so beautiful surrounded by a crown of flowering daisy yellows and rose reds, swaddled in sweet baby pinks. He is so beautiful, but he is starving, and I am not enough. 

The capitol is close by.

My baby shivers and calls out “mama!” He would be different, stronger, if I brought him to the capitol, free to gorge himself and free from the Fathers’ influence. I can hear the screams of the capitol, smell the rotting bodies. My baby is screaming, and he will smell too. Thousands will die. My baby is dying. 

I think of my Sisters, and I see them drowning in a sea of red.  

I take a step toward the capitol.