Whoever said it was the happiest day of their life lied to you.

The day one births new life into the world isn't happy. To call it such is to downplay it into near nonexistence. A singular emotion cannot sum up such a day as that, and I'd argue that it is not the day of birth which is happiest, but the day after (in the case of a healthy child and mother, of course). Yes, the day after is happiest... but the day of?

No.

To understand the day of birth, one must rewind several months (several years in the heart of one longing for a child, but we'll just go back the months for the sake of keeping things concise).

It all begins with a day of reckoning, for better or worse, when two little pink lines appear on a pregnancy test. No matter where the test is taken, Walmart bathroom or villa in the hills of France, the world stops spinning for those few seconds, as you stare into an unpredictable, terrifying, splendid future. The moment stretches, and you are surprised when you don't just fall into eternity right then and there. But then, inexplicably, life goes on.

And you feel, for all the while you carry that life inside of you, like a spectator-- removed from who you were before. You're changed somewhere in the deepest part of yourself.

Now, I've always said God made pregnancy miserable, else we'd never get over the fear of birth itself. Such palpable terror that courses inside oneself at the thought of delivering a babe is unlike any other I've yet to encounter.

But, if you're anything like me, you'll be sick before those two little lines even appear. You'll hate food you used to love. You'll be angry. You'll weep without any reason at all. You'll feel suddenly, terribly out of control of yourself. And as the months stretch, as your everything stretches, weaving webs of womanhood down the lengths of your stomach, your thighs, your hips... you'll begin to feel better. You'll begin to enjoy some secret power, some fragrant flaunting of fertility, some delight at the brows that raise, at the quiet knowledge of just how you made that little life now growing inside. But of course, just when you begin to enjoy it-- the pains will begin.

They'll start small.

First, a twinge in your leg when you've sat too long.

And then, if you keep sitting, a hemorrhoid might appear.

You'll be bothered, but hey-- that's the cost of motherhood, you'll tell yourself.

They'll go away after the babe is born, you'll tell yourself.

Then comes a different pain, a toll wrought by the weight of carrying another being inside oneself: back pain. It starts with a minor twinge now and again, then settles into a permanent ache, only alleviated if your partner is so gracious as to come behind you and settle arms under the weight, to lift it off of you, if only for a moment. When you're nearing your time, but still too early to feel it safe, you'll begin to have the birth pangs: a tightness in the center of you, a pressure and pulling, the sensation on sharp claws running down the inner walls of your abdomen. You'll think, surely, this is it? Surely, that was real. So, you'll begin to panic. You aren't ready for this.

And God knows.

Yes. That pain wasn't enough. You haven't suffered enough to wish for the earth-rending, tearing pain of birth.

So, you'll continue, pains mounting, ever-growing like the child inside of you, for another two months.

On the last week, you'll be bitter.

What a fool I was, you'll think. What liars they were to have espoused the 'beauty of pregnancy', you'll think. Glowing? MY ASS, you'll think. If you are like me, your feet will swell, your breasts will ache, full to the point of bursting, the skin on your belly will be taunt and tight and those motherhood lines will scream and scream as you work lotion into them in vain. And yet, somewhere inside of you, you'll begin to feel it: a strange pleasure in the pain. There will be a rightness to it, and so the true ache will begin, when you stop fighting against it, when you fully lean into the power of the pain when you admit to yourself and to God almighty that you're ready for real work to begin-- whatever the cost. You're ready.

And so begin the contractions. The shifting. The sensation of fullness to bursting. The unwavering knowledge that you will do what must be done. Your mind and your body will join and the world will, once again, cease to spin. There is only you, only the raw, wretched, wonderful pain, only the child in that moment. God help your partner then, if they make a nuisance of themselves. For they'll not realize it isn't you they're talking to. You'll have become some other. Some creature fed only on sensation, on desire, on pain. You'll speak in a new voice, then. You'll utter words and shrieks you didn't know lived inside the very center of you, dormant all this time until this singular awakening... or... if you're like me.. You'll hold that all inside: a tempest in the heart of your soul. You will be silent. The room will be silent but for the quiet exhalation of breath. You will know the truth. You will do what must be done. And so, as your body stretches and tears, you'll cling with vise fingers to the bed-sheets, your eyes will scream with silent determination as you cleave that little life from you, as you force your most precious possession outside of yourself and so give it to the cruel world to hold. Then comes the shattering of the silence, the moment when the world clicks back into place and begins to turn once more: A cry, defiant, powerful. The warriors cry that screams from tiny rosebud lips, shouting triumph, echoing down the corridors of time: I. am. here. And when the child is placed upon your chest, they'll be warmer than you imagined. They'll be the missing piece of you--the piece you just tore out. And you'll know, then, that you'll never be the same again, because now the biggest piece of your soul lives on the outside. So, you will not be happy, no. You will feel everything all at once: fear. Pain. Longing. Love beyond reckoning. Worry. Anger at the world your soul must now live in. Sadness, because you have come to an ending along with the new beginning. And yes, happiness. You will feel happiness.

But whoever told you it would be the happiest day of your life is a liar.

Those come after.

Those come when you realize that cutting a piece of your soul out and letting it run about the world isn't such a bad thing, after all.

The happiest day is the day they place a tiny hand on your cheek and coo the love you let out right back into your heart.

And then, you'll know.

It was worth it.

Not to be

Too ruminative

But the choice

To live

By bit and bridle

Is nothing more

Than mere survival

"Dad's home. What are we going to tell him?"

"We're not going to tell him anything, Fizz."

"He's going to notice the fucking dog is missing, Mixx. He's not an idiot."

"Yes, he is. Mom only married him for his hair and biceps..."

"And gluts."

"Yeah, don't remind me. We'll tell him we haven't seen Bailey and just play dumb."

"That's easy for you; you've only got a 167 IQ. I'm going to have to put on the performance of a lifetime."

"Four points, Fizz. Four tiny fucking IQ points, and I was hopped up on Paracetamol..."

"Hey girls, what's up?"

"Hi Daddy!"

"Hey Fizz! You guys still working on the project?"

"Yeah, Mixxy's just working out some bugs."

"Bugs? It's almost noon. I would have thought you two would be celebrating unlocking the mysteries of the space-time continuum by now."

"It's the... time-space continuum, Father."

"Yeah... that's what they call it in this universe. So, what is this thing, Mixx?"

"Right now, I don't know what it is."

"Well, what does it do?"

"Nothing."

"That's not true. It does something, we're just not sure what."

"Well, what's is supposed to do?"

"It supposed to facilitate the diffusion of molecules across a selectively permeable membrane between areas of higher to lower concentration, Father."

"Ohhh... so it's a ray gun!"

"Yes, it's a ray gun."

"Nice. Where's Bailey?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen him. Have you seen him, Fizz?"

"Well, I certainly don't see him now."

"Maybe he's in the back yard."

"Maybe... it's weird, he always greets me at the door. I figured he must be up here with you guys helping with your work on your ray gun thing..."

"Don't touch that!"

"Daddy no!"

"What's happening?!"

"Mixx! Fizz! Hold onto me!"

"Daddy!"

"I've got you!"

"Look... "

"What? What the hell? What's wrong with my voice? Are you hearing this?"

"You sound like a chipmunk... hahahaha! I sound like a chipmunk!"

"Why don't I sound... ooookay, I sound like a chipmunk, too. What the heck is going on, Mixxy? What kind of molecular diffusion... selectably permable..."

"Selectively permeable... it doesn't matter! That's not what it was. You wouldn't understand it anyway."

"Sure I would. Molecular diffusion... and selectively permeable... membranes and the... the other..."

"That's osmosis! I just gave you the definition of osmosis so you'd leave us alone to work on accelerator!"

"Accelerator?! What does it accelerate? Where the hell are we, Mixx?"

"I don't know! Ask Fizz! She's the smart one!"

"Only by four points! I don't know where we are! Everything's all fuzzy and blurry and..."

"Okay, let's all just calm down."

"Fizz! Fizz! Sit! Fizz! Mixx!"

"Who the heck is that?"

"It came from over there. Look, some... thing's coming."

"Sit! Fizz! Mixx!"

"Holy mother of crap! It's Bailey!"

"Bailey! You're talking!"

"Bailey talking. Good boy."

"Holy crap, Mixx. You've transported us into a parallel universe where dogs can talk!"

"What do we do now, Mixx?"

"I don't friggin' know! There's a 500-word limit!"

An hour is 60 minutes, 3,600 seconds, or 3,600,000 milliseconds. But it's just enough time to save or ruin the remaining 26,280,000 minutes, 1,576,800,000 seconds, or 1,576,800,000,000 milliseconds you have left. That's about 1,839,600,000 heartbeats, give or take--adjusted by the saving or the ruining.

Pearls are the result of irritation. Ask any oyster. Or the host of any guest who's outlasted his welcome.

And I'm irritated.

The irony is that I use this concentric-layered aragonite and calcite to sequester my irritation. It just happens to be on the end of a pistol. It's to settle my discontent that began small as a grain. That milky white irony is now firmly within my grasp: solid, purposeful, 45-calibred, and well-aimed. It is an iron-clad clasp that is clammy and sweaty. I won't wait a day longer, lest it become rusty.

Colt Manufacturing Company and Smith & Wesson solve problems. They remedy discontent. I bought stock in them before I bought this useful tool lock, stock, and barrel. It's the only thing that memorializes me in this alleged crime, committed--allegedly--by the alleged shooter who is me. Allegedly.

People with imagination, however, will ask, "Who killed whom?"

And what will finally solve my problem is that I must turn this pearly executioner on myself as well as you. Because the whole drama--the discontent, the irritation, the pain, the cruelty that ruins what's left of my life--is a package deal of you and me. There's no villain and there's no victim. You and I are way past that. How would one draw the line between us? This is our final dance macabre together. Does it matter whether it's here or at the end of a rope? What does matter in any dance is who leads.

May I?

I have clammed up tight, but the irritation has continued within--until I find I must open, explosively, to discharge that irritation. It's just part of the pearl-making ecosystem, don't you think?

You want to live? So do I! But there's no living with you. We're gonna go together. I've tried to understand your motivations and your reasons. I found them irritating, so I suppose I'm just a terrible host; and you've outstayed your welcome.

So, before all is done, we're both gonna be dead. Two birds with one stone, eh?

Me and my terminal disease. I hope you find it funny, but I've left explicit instructions that my tombstone read,

YOU SHOULD SEE THE OTHER GUY

And there I was suddenly,

staring at her pale, dead blue eyes.

“This is it, isn’t it?”

I asked her, but with no reply;

only a trembling in her lips.

Hysteria begins to overwhelm me –

I felt the cold, weight of that silver .45 press against my temple.

Here it comes;

she will finally be the finality of me.

Maybe this torture will cease now.

But what a fool I am! Ha!

She will never have mercy on me!

She will never pull that trigger for a coward she is!

I watch her gaze as it haunts my vision;

piercing into me as if to center that knife deep into my heart.

I see her pity for me,

so repulsively beautiful,

as it drips from her face.

“What are you waiting for?!” I screamed at her.

I hated her,

Oh, how I hated the woman who was a curse to my life!

A curse to life;

to humanity!

And I cannot live in a time where she wanders;

I cannot be attached to her anymore –

to her fears, to her dreams,

to her irrationality.

Her insanity is a parasite!

Oh, how she’s contagious!

Rip me from her, I plead!

And as that last droplet of sweat descends from my forehead,

tingling my skin in its warm mass,

I last her speak;

those haunting words that will imprint onto my soul -

“She is me.”

And that click of the silver marches quickly

as I fall so unforgivingly before that mirror.

I boldly stood on the edge of the cliff, knowing it was dangerous, not caring about the risk. And then it happened; I slipped. My feet swung in empty air, as my hands grasped unsuccessfully at the slippery edge, and I cried out in desperation, wishing that I hadn't disobeyed the only one who could save me. Then, out of the dark, a pair of warm hands grasped mine, pulling me back to solid ground. A pair of comforting arms wrapped tightly around me, and a voice said, "My child, even if you disobey me, I will never leave you."

The bed in the guest room was comfortable, but wasn’t the same as home. Lying on her back, she willed herself to sleep.

A cat jumped onto the bed near her feet.

Oh, she thought, hello bedmate...

She felt the cat walk over her legs, felt its feline weight as it draped its body over her abdomen.

Friendly...

She soon drifted off to sleep hoping it wouldn’t begin that kneading thing cats sometimes do and wake her.

In the morning, she poured herself coffee and commented, “I didn’t know you had a cat.”

Her host’s face grew pale, “I don’t.”