Afterbirth

It comes out writhing and smelling like meat. It abuses the midwives with its surprisingly strong fists, fighting against the ejection.

I know, I know, we all coo to it.

Our nostrils widen to capture more of that pure animal stench. I lean towards the baby, inhaling greedily of the odour. A familiar pang of jealousy and mourning strikes me momentarily senseless. I've turned the scissors around in my hand, the points facing my own skin. The other midwife is busy, but the anaesthetist recaptures my attention, brings me back to the present...