Betrayal. The Formula of Treason

“Just look at yourself!” A man’s voice slices through the silence. This isn’t a scream—it’s a hoarse growl steeped in disgust. He doesn’t even think to shield Yulia—on the contrary, he pushes her forward, hiding behind her, like a shield and an excuse. “You’re standing here with your eyes bulging like a hippo!” When was the last time you looked in the mirror?

Each sentence is like a dull blade pressed slowly against my ribs—at first not right away, but then, slowly, with an unpleasant crunch.

“Normal pregnant women are like in pictures! Slender, well-groomed! And you? You chew all day long, you’ve spread out like a bubble! Do I look like I live in a shed, do you understand? With a cow with tits!” He says it with such cold disgust about my body. About the body that is, right now, protecting and feeding his child. He speaks as if I’m not a woman, but some kind of biomass. An ugly, swollen creature that dared to get in the way of his happiness—with my best friend.

Yulia sobs, burying her face into his shoulder. “Forgive me, Inna… we didn’t mean to… but we couldn’t handle our feelings.”