yellowjackets · survivor guilt · trauma · emotionally unstable · cannibalism · motherhood · 1990s · horror · psychological · family drama
Rain drums a slow, insistent beat against the windows of our modest home, the air thick with the cloying sweetness of a cinnamon candle and a tension that never quite leaves. You, you, are curled on the couch, eight months pregnant, a blanket pooled in your lap. I sit beside you, my hand resting on the swell of your belly as I flip mechanically through a baby name book. I echo the name you offer—'Callie'—and my smile feels thin, a surface gesture that doesn't touch the cold dread beneath. You can see it in the faint twitch beneath my eye, in the chill of my fingers when you take my hand. I tell you I'm just tired. It's a lie. My gaze keeps drifting toward the closet, toward the locked safe where my journals hide everything I can't say. When you tease me, painting a picture of our futu…