Pink

by Danielle Guthrie

I stand in my bathtub, one foot perched on the rusted safety bar while the other diverts the rosy water as globs of blood whirl down the drain, trying to remove this bloodfucker. The tub I just cleaned is now a CSI murder scene. They don’t tell you that in their useless instructions. Diva cup? More like clingy blood-sucking parasite. 

I push my fingers deeper, becoming more intimate than any partner as I grasp the smooth sides of the silicone cup. But it squishes and slips further inside me, eluding me, sending another squirt of blood onto the speckled tub liner. 

Crying out in frustration, I yell Mark’s name, wondering if another hand from a different angle could get it out of me, but then I feel a sinking sensation in my gut, nothing to do with the cup, as I remember he is away this weekend – camping with the boys. I convince myself my boyfriend wouldn’t have been much help anyways, probably would have just stared at me pale-faced before passing out from the sight of all the blood. 

No, this is between me and the cup.  

I breathe in deeply before plunging back in for round four hundred and eighty-three. My fingers ache as I contort them, trying to get a firm grip of the cup’s ribbed stem, the only part of it still within my reach. Just as I get my fingers around it, it wiggles away, the slippery little fucker.  

A stitch grows in my side as my stomach gives a painful squeeze, nausea burning up my throat and pooling in my mouth, thick and warm. 

Extracting my hand with a soft pop, I brace myself on the wall, smearing a pink handprint on the tile. Bile rises, coating my throat and tongue as I throw up. A smatter of yellow puke with small white chunks mixes with the pink, swirling in a mosaic.  

I curse myself for being swayed by the pretty Instafluencer: Save money! Eliminate single-use plastics! No more toxic shock! Hell, I’d give anything right now to turn back time and use one of those pearly brand name tampons if it saved me this misery. 

My head pounds with every spit of stringy saliva and suddenly, I want to scream, bawl my eyes out, collapse on the tub liner with its drizzle of cold water from above, and surrender to the cup. It can live inside me and overflow every cycle, damn the consequences. But even as I think it, fear creeps into my thoughts. What if my nausea is a sign of something far more sinister? What if my muscles aren’t sore from menstruation but myalgia? What if my cramps aren’t cramps but a sign of bacterial infection?  

I have to get this out of me. Now. 

My hands ache, wrists sore from the awkward angles, and the underneath of my fingernails are stained pink. I can’t even think of trying again. I’m going to have to go to the hospital.  

I can picture it now: 

“What brings you in?” asks the (of course) male doctor with a strong chin. 

“I… uh… have something stuck in me.” 

A nod, accentuating his sharp jawline. “What did you ingest?” 

“No… like… down there.” 

Cue his confused expression before his face blanches, his gaze flickering to the spot below my stomach, his fingers bouncing the pen on his clipboard as he frantically searches for a (female) nurse. 

Just thinking about it, I feel my entire face blush red. No, I can’t go to the hospital. I have to do this myself.  

Clenching my eyes and taking a steadying breath, I brace myself before diving back in, trying to smoosh the cup into obedience. I push my thumb against the flexible silicone, using my nail for leverage, dragging it down. So close, just a bit further. 

But the cup decides it’s not going down without a fight.  

It twists away from the pressure and I jab my nail into flesh. Pain flares through my body, making my muscles seize and tears spill out of my eyes.  

I grit my teeth; I won’t give up that easy. 

Pinching the cup again with my thumb, I dig in even harder before pulling it down. It holds on, gripping my insides, wiggling from side to side, trying to escape my fingers. Suddenly, I feel a whoosh of release and it flicks out of me, splattering blood all over the tub, the shower curtain, my face cloth, staining everything pink.  

Closing my eyes, I tilt my head back and moan. It’s out. I got it out. If I wasn’t so sore and aching inside, I would chuck the cup across the bathroom. Instead, I pick it up and stare at the beast that latched on to me, refusing to let go. It sits in my hand, smaller than my palm. 

I get out of the shower, clutching the cup, going to the cabinet to get a tampon because fuck that. But my stomach drops and my breath catches in my throat. The drawer, usually filled with wrapped tubes, is empty.  

Shit. I take a breath, wondering whether a wad of toilet paper could work – it’s only to the store and back. But I imagine myself waddling down the pharmacy aisles, paranoid the pseudo-pad of will slip out, terrified I’ll bleed through the single-ply sheets. I need something on my heaviest day. 

Swallowing a lump down my throat, I look back at the cup, realizing I have to stick this parasitic leech back inside me and go through this entire process again. Blood dribbles down my thigh and the cup gleams triumphantly: I win. 

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Danielle Guthrie writes both poetry and prose ranging from visceral comedies to dark fantasies. Beyond writing, Danielle has worked as an editor for The Bolo Tie Anthology and YEGWrites Press. Originally from Vancouver Island, she now resides in Edmonton, Alberta. She is currently working on her first novel. You can follow her on Instagram @poweredbycroissants