Roar will publish a first-person story about abortion, “My Abortion: A Daily Story,” every day for at least 365 days.
I walk down the corridor of the hotel to the door whose number I memorized after the man warned me not to write it down.
The man opens the door. He doesn’t smile. I don’t look him in the eye. The burly sidekick who collected our cash isn’t with him.
All the blinds are drawn. The folding metal table is next to the bed. I never expected the smell, like I’m the one inside the womb. Not a safe place to be.
“How many of these do you do a day?” I stupidly say. The man’s small eyes become slits. “You’re the only one,’ he says.
I slide off my jeans, and panties and the sanitary belt and pad he told me to wear. In just my flannel shirt I climb up on the table.
“Come to the end and spread your legs.”
When the pain starts, I clench my eyes shut. I have to throw up from every pore in my body. The sweat oozing out of me is a sickly green. I start to gag and the man shoves a hotel trash basket at me.
And then he stops. I let the can drop to the floor and lie back, panting. It’s over. I have my life back.
“Do you want to see it?” he asks.
“No.” I say, ”No”.
The man walks away. I hear the toilet flush. I try not to imagine it, swirling around the hotel toilet like a dead goldfish.