Contributor: Kyle Yadlosky
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“Just let me out, baby,” my girlfriend, Trisha’s voice drifts from the bathroom. “I think I’m late.”
My back is pressed against the door so she can’t escape, legs squared. “No, no,” I say. “Let’s not call it, yet. It just hit midnight.”
“Come on. Let me out. You know nothing bad’s gonna happen.”
“That’s the demon talking.”
Through the door, I hear her sit on the toilet. She sighs into her hands.
“You might wanna take off your panties,” I suggest.
She huffs at that. Then, her breathing shakes, breaking into sobs. She hicks and gasps, and I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. Shattered breaths piece together out of her mouth. She sobs and wails in low tones. Then, the crying turns to panting, then laughing. Then, she cackles. The cackling rises, cut by quick inhales. She screeches toward the door, loud and constant. The sink, tub, and toilet start to vibrate. The pipes rattle.
I step back.
Then, with a thump, everything stops still, quiet.
It’s day one.
Some women have heavy flows, others low. Men, we don’t try to understand. We just endure. And the women suffer. Lady pains—their bleeding, changing personalities—it’s demonic possession. Every woman has a little demon burrowed inside her vagina.
On day one, the blood pours. I press a towel under the bathroom door. Deep, straining moans rumble from Trisha’s throat. The toilet vibrates lightly. Blood drips steadily. It flows onto the floor, where it splashes and pools. I pray it doesn’t leak into our downstairs neighbor’s apartment. I pray the floor doesn’t cave in. The blood drains from her until she turns blue.
I can hear a tide forming. Blood splashes on top of itself with nowhere to go. Trisha groans once, desperate and low, and she kicks. Her foot splashes the blood, which streams and slams into the door. It soaks straight through the towel with enough force to push it out. Blood seeps into the walkway, and my hands stain red from touching it.
I grab a mop and bucket and begin to work. I sop up all the blood I can as my girl moans and groans, bleeding a river, from behind the door. I fill my mop, and I twist the red fluid into the bucket. I fill the bucket, and I get another. By the time she’s done, I’ve filled four. It’s about eight pm. I haven’t slept since midnight.
I lift the four buckets, two in each hand, and shove aside the bathroom door. The stench strikes me first—gagging, so thick you can taste copper. The floor is soaked in a straight red streak. I dump the buckets in the bathtub and mop the bathroom floor. I use straight long swipes, using cleaner, making sure not to leave a drop behind. I use a towel and surface cleaner to wipe up the thick candy-cane stripe running down the toilet. I lift Trisha’s legs. She twitches and grunts against me. I wipe the toilet seat. I flush the toilet, clean out anything sticking to the bowl. Trisha didn’t remove her panties. I peel them off, toss them in the bathtub, and clean her up. Then, I wash my hands and toss the towel I use to dry them in the tub, along with the towel from under the door. I turn the lock on the inside of the bathroom door and step out, shutting it behind me.
Then, I wait.
On day two, it forms. You can hear it crooning in the bathtub, sloshing in itself, feeding off itself. Soon the tub will be clean, drained of every speck of blood. I hear it peeling its congealed body from the porcelain. It opens its mouth and roars. It’s a demon born of Trisha’s blood. Its voice is a synthesized croon. “What am I doing in here?” it shouts. “Why did you put me in here? Am I too ugly? Do you not want to see me? Why don’t you want to see me!”
It screeches and throws itself against the door. The hinges rattle, knob shakes. I start to dawn my equipment.
The first time I battled her demon, I was unprepared. I didn’t mop, and when it formed the blood swirled into a torrent and destroyed my cupboards, stained my counter, even shattered upward through the coffee table to form its demon in the center of my living room. One errant drop can become a bullet.
I’ve moved from that apartment since.
On the start of day three I’m exhausted, heavy pads of hockey gear weighing me down, helmet on tight, axe at the ready. The bathroom door is cracking, the white paint peeling. The demon’s voice pierces through. “Why don’t you love me? Let me out! Don’t you care? I’m in so much pain!”
I sit on the couch, axe across my legs, and my head slumps, eyes close. I can get an hour of shut-eye before the door shatters.
Day four comes in a warm shower of vaginal blood. I sweep my axe through the demon’s body, and it sprays the hot fluid. It stumbles backward, cackling. “Is that it? You never penetrate me deep enough! I guess swinging by yourself all your life hasn’t helped!” It cackles again, loud enough that the downstairs neighbor pounds on his roof.
“Shut the hell up!” he yells.
I swing again, straight for the demon’s mouth.
Trisha’s lady pains started when she was just a girl. She went into the house on every block that no one is supposed to go into—that haunted house. All the kids said a witch lived there. They were right. Trisha broke in one night on a dare. She tried to hide, but the witch found her. She was ten, just starting to spot. The witch smelled it on Trisha, and she cursed the little girl. She cursed that Trisha’s inner demon would claw its way out of her body every month, and that it would never stop, and she would have no control over what it did.
Her family threw her in a deep hole dug in the backyard every month until the demon passed. She’d run away by fourteen.
She’s tried taking pills and using the ring and everything to stop her periods, but nothing works. It only intensifies the demon’s rage. She said she was almost bled to death when she started taking the pills. When she had the ring, the demon tore it out of her body. Doctors around the world have study her and her symptoms. There’s no answer, no cure—
Just like all lady pains.
Day five hurts. The demon has my helmet off, claws scraping under my hair. It screeches, “I wanted to see my mother! Why did you keep me here! Why do you force me to stay here with you!” Her mother’s birthday was last week. I had work; I couldn’t make it. She didn’t want to drive down alone. I told her she could go. The demon never remembers things as they happen.
I yell in pain as it draws blood from my scalp. I pry the demon away with the handle axe’s handle. The blade has since torn off, trapped inside the demon. The demon’s reeling and screaming. “Why did you kill my cat!”
Her cat broke its neck jumping from a tree. I was with her when the veterinarian put it down.
“You never tell me how you feel! I tell you everything, but you never say a word!”
I know it’s best not to talk to the demon. If it can’t think of a new attack, it starts to get dizzy, mutter. I might be able to knock it off balance, stab it to death with a kitchen knife, end this early.
“You think I’m fat and ugly, and you can’t stand me! Look at me! Look at me! You can’t stand me!” I lock eyes with the black orbs on its crimson face. Its forehead is an alien’s. Its mouth is a black hole. Its body is sticking strands of putrid blood. It has no fingers or toes. It’s amorphous, shifting slightly with every second. Where it walks it bleeds, and its words are poison. “Don’t you think I’m beautiful?”
No. But I don’t say that.
“Don’t you think I—I...” it stops and stares at the wall. “Don’t you think...” This is it, my moment. I slip a kitchen knife slowly from our cutting block without attracting attention, and, when I have it in my hand, I lunge.
The demon doesn’t screech. It doesn’t protest. It just dies without knowing what happened.
It’s day six. I’ve slept three hours all week. Now, I’m dragging this mess of dry blood back into the bathroom. Trisha’s blue fingers hang limp at her sides, head down. Her mouth is open. I drop the demon on the ground in front of her. I spread Trisha’s legs. Then, I press the demon head-first against the lips of her vagina. I force the head against her hole, and it stretches.
Trisha gasps, tensing and clawing against the bottom of the toilet bowl. I force the demon in down to its neck. Trisha’s skin starts to color off-white. Then, I steady my feet on the floor and push with my legs to shove the shoulders through her hole. At that she screams, and her body bucks backward. She’s twitching and moaning. Her skin’s going to pink. I take a breath and prepare myself for another push.
The worst is over.
When she told me about her lady pains we were eating. We had been dating for almost a year, and once every month she’d go on a trip to a cabin that she bought, no more than a rundown shack. She’d pass out and let her demon go mad where no one could hear it, out there. Then, when it’d finally pass out, she’d have to force herself from her stupor, weak and drained, and drag her body across splintered wood to shove the demon back in, herself.
No matter how many times she told me she was serious, I thought she was joking. I went with it, though, and now I stay with it. I don’t know what else to say, other than that I really like this girl.
On the seventh day, my girl is back to me. She’s holding me, crying, shaking. She smells awful, like stale blood. She’ll wash as soon as her legs get the strength. That’s when I’ll sleep.
“I’m sorry,” she weeps into my shoulder. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say into her ear. “It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s not your fault.”
It’s just lady pains.
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“Just let me out, baby,” my girlfriend, Trisha’s voice drifts from the bathroom. “I think I’m late.”
My back is pressed against the door so she can’t escape, legs squared. “No, no,” I say. “Let’s not call it, yet. It just hit midnight.”
“Come on. Let me out. You know nothing bad’s gonna happen.”
“That’s the demon talking.”
Through the door, I hear her sit on the toilet. She sighs into her hands.
“You might wanna take off your panties,” I suggest.
She huffs at that. Then, her breathing shakes, breaking into sobs. She hicks and gasps, and I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. Shattered breaths piece together out of her mouth. She sobs and wails in low tones. Then, the crying turns to panting, then laughing. Then, she cackles. The cackling rises, cut by quick inhales. She screeches toward the door, loud and constant. The sink, tub, and toilet start to vibrate. The pipes rattle.
I step back.
Then, with a thump, everything stops still, quiet.
It’s day one.
Some women have heavy flows, others low. Men, we don’t try to understand. We just endure. And the women suffer. Lady pains—their bleeding, changing personalities—it’s demonic possession. Every woman has a little demon burrowed inside her vagina.
On day one, the blood pours. I press a towel under the bathroom door. Deep, straining moans rumble from Trisha’s throat. The toilet vibrates lightly. Blood drips steadily. It flows onto the floor, where it splashes and pools. I pray it doesn’t leak into our downstairs neighbor’s apartment. I pray the floor doesn’t cave in. The blood drains from her until she turns blue.
I can hear a tide forming. Blood splashes on top of itself with nowhere to go. Trisha groans once, desperate and low, and she kicks. Her foot splashes the blood, which streams and slams into the door. It soaks straight through the towel with enough force to push it out. Blood seeps into the walkway, and my hands stain red from touching it.
I grab a mop and bucket and begin to work. I sop up all the blood I can as my girl moans and groans, bleeding a river, from behind the door. I fill my mop, and I twist the red fluid into the bucket. I fill the bucket, and I get another. By the time she’s done, I’ve filled four. It’s about eight pm. I haven’t slept since midnight.
I lift the four buckets, two in each hand, and shove aside the bathroom door. The stench strikes me first—gagging, so thick you can taste copper. The floor is soaked in a straight red streak. I dump the buckets in the bathtub and mop the bathroom floor. I use straight long swipes, using cleaner, making sure not to leave a drop behind. I use a towel and surface cleaner to wipe up the thick candy-cane stripe running down the toilet. I lift Trisha’s legs. She twitches and grunts against me. I wipe the toilet seat. I flush the toilet, clean out anything sticking to the bowl. Trisha didn’t remove her panties. I peel them off, toss them in the bathtub, and clean her up. Then, I wash my hands and toss the towel I use to dry them in the tub, along with the towel from under the door. I turn the lock on the inside of the bathroom door and step out, shutting it behind me.
Then, I wait.
On day two, it forms. You can hear it crooning in the bathtub, sloshing in itself, feeding off itself. Soon the tub will be clean, drained of every speck of blood. I hear it peeling its congealed body from the porcelain. It opens its mouth and roars. It’s a demon born of Trisha’s blood. Its voice is a synthesized croon. “What am I doing in here?” it shouts. “Why did you put me in here? Am I too ugly? Do you not want to see me? Why don’t you want to see me!”
It screeches and throws itself against the door. The hinges rattle, knob shakes. I start to dawn my equipment.
The first time I battled her demon, I was unprepared. I didn’t mop, and when it formed the blood swirled into a torrent and destroyed my cupboards, stained my counter, even shattered upward through the coffee table to form its demon in the center of my living room. One errant drop can become a bullet.
I’ve moved from that apartment since.
On the start of day three I’m exhausted, heavy pads of hockey gear weighing me down, helmet on tight, axe at the ready. The bathroom door is cracking, the white paint peeling. The demon’s voice pierces through. “Why don’t you love me? Let me out! Don’t you care? I’m in so much pain!”
I sit on the couch, axe across my legs, and my head slumps, eyes close. I can get an hour of shut-eye before the door shatters.
Day four comes in a warm shower of vaginal blood. I sweep my axe through the demon’s body, and it sprays the hot fluid. It stumbles backward, cackling. “Is that it? You never penetrate me deep enough! I guess swinging by yourself all your life hasn’t helped!” It cackles again, loud enough that the downstairs neighbor pounds on his roof.
“Shut the hell up!” he yells.
I swing again, straight for the demon’s mouth.
Trisha’s lady pains started when she was just a girl. She went into the house on every block that no one is supposed to go into—that haunted house. All the kids said a witch lived there. They were right. Trisha broke in one night on a dare. She tried to hide, but the witch found her. She was ten, just starting to spot. The witch smelled it on Trisha, and she cursed the little girl. She cursed that Trisha’s inner demon would claw its way out of her body every month, and that it would never stop, and she would have no control over what it did.
Her family threw her in a deep hole dug in the backyard every month until the demon passed. She’d run away by fourteen.
She’s tried taking pills and using the ring and everything to stop her periods, but nothing works. It only intensifies the demon’s rage. She said she was almost bled to death when she started taking the pills. When she had the ring, the demon tore it out of her body. Doctors around the world have study her and her symptoms. There’s no answer, no cure—
Just like all lady pains.
Day five hurts. The demon has my helmet off, claws scraping under my hair. It screeches, “I wanted to see my mother! Why did you keep me here! Why do you force me to stay here with you!” Her mother’s birthday was last week. I had work; I couldn’t make it. She didn’t want to drive down alone. I told her she could go. The demon never remembers things as they happen.
I yell in pain as it draws blood from my scalp. I pry the demon away with the handle axe’s handle. The blade has since torn off, trapped inside the demon. The demon’s reeling and screaming. “Why did you kill my cat!”
Her cat broke its neck jumping from a tree. I was with her when the veterinarian put it down.
“You never tell me how you feel! I tell you everything, but you never say a word!”
I know it’s best not to talk to the demon. If it can’t think of a new attack, it starts to get dizzy, mutter. I might be able to knock it off balance, stab it to death with a kitchen knife, end this early.
“You think I’m fat and ugly, and you can’t stand me! Look at me! Look at me! You can’t stand me!” I lock eyes with the black orbs on its crimson face. Its forehead is an alien’s. Its mouth is a black hole. Its body is sticking strands of putrid blood. It has no fingers or toes. It’s amorphous, shifting slightly with every second. Where it walks it bleeds, and its words are poison. “Don’t you think I’m beautiful?”
No. But I don’t say that.
“Don’t you think I—I...” it stops and stares at the wall. “Don’t you think...” This is it, my moment. I slip a kitchen knife slowly from our cutting block without attracting attention, and, when I have it in my hand, I lunge.
The demon doesn’t screech. It doesn’t protest. It just dies without knowing what happened.
It’s day six. I’ve slept three hours all week. Now, I’m dragging this mess of dry blood back into the bathroom. Trisha’s blue fingers hang limp at her sides, head down. Her mouth is open. I drop the demon on the ground in front of her. I spread Trisha’s legs. Then, I press the demon head-first against the lips of her vagina. I force the head against her hole, and it stretches.
Trisha gasps, tensing and clawing against the bottom of the toilet bowl. I force the demon in down to its neck. Trisha’s skin starts to color off-white. Then, I steady my feet on the floor and push with my legs to shove the shoulders through her hole. At that she screams, and her body bucks backward. She’s twitching and moaning. Her skin’s going to pink. I take a breath and prepare myself for another push.
The worst is over.
When she told me about her lady pains we were eating. We had been dating for almost a year, and once every month she’d go on a trip to a cabin that she bought, no more than a rundown shack. She’d pass out and let her demon go mad where no one could hear it, out there. Then, when it’d finally pass out, she’d have to force herself from her stupor, weak and drained, and drag her body across splintered wood to shove the demon back in, herself.
No matter how many times she told me she was serious, I thought she was joking. I went with it, though, and now I stay with it. I don’t know what else to say, other than that I really like this girl.
On the seventh day, my girl is back to me. She’s holding me, crying, shaking. She smells awful, like stale blood. She’ll wash as soon as her legs get the strength. That’s when I’ll sleep.
“I’m sorry,” she weeps into my shoulder. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say into her ear. “It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s not your fault.”
It’s just lady pains.
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Author:
Kyle Yadlosky
