The Colour of Loss
written by: Larissa Huber
Red, warm blotches drop onto the white porcelain. The drops find their way onto the seat, leaving crimson streaks behind, only to fall into the water, turning it salmon before finally disappearing.
If you were to ask her what she feels in this moment, realising that the wetness between her legs is, in fact, blood and how she found herself in a run-down, dirty toilet in a petrol station, she wouldn’t know what to say. She feels nothing; then everything comes crashing in like a wave and takes her breath away.
The first emotion she can distinguish, amid her rapid breathing, is fear. She’s heard about cases like this, read about them in the newspaper. Already traumatised women standing in front of a jury, judged for their supposed lack of femininity. The gazes of people near them, pitying and prying.
Should she go to a doctor? Will they help her, or will it lead to her watching the world from behind prison bars?
She remembers a story from a while ago that was written about a woman who did not get medical help and later died from sepsis.
Another cramp hits her, pushing all the air out of her lungs, making her clench her teeth together in pain. She wants to scream out her agony, but she bites her tongue to hold herself back until she has a metallic taste in her mouth.
Her nostrils flare when she tries to breathe through the pain, her whole body feeling raw from tension. She inhales the stale air, a mixture of rust, urine, and ammonia, which makes her gag. Her hands try to feel the warmth of another hand; instead, they only find the cold of the walls surrounding her. Her eyes find a bumper sticker on the filthy stall wall, a drawing of a fist with the words My body, my choice surrounding it, even though she can hardly make out the My choice because it is covered by another sticker with bold letters reading Believe in Jesus.
‘Hey, Miss?’ a voice with a Southern Drawl interrupts her inner turmoil. A knock follows. ‘You alright? It’s been a spell, and your fella’s been lookin’ for ya.’ She takes a deep breath before answering. ‘I’m fine.’ Her voice sounds raspy as though she hasn’t drunk anything for days. ‘I’m sorry for taking so long. I’ll be out in a second.’ After she answers, the footsteps retreat.
She takes a large amount of toilet paper, folding it to fit inside her underwear. Within seconds, the first blood stains the white tissue. The woman takes another deep breath, pulling her underwear and jeans back into place. Her stomach still churns as she leaves the petrol station, thanking the employee before walking slowly and uncertainly toward the black pickup truck by one of the fuel pumps.
The sun burns down unmercifully while cars drive by on the street, some angry drivers honking, others blasting music through open windows. Breathing in through her nose, the smell of petrol and exhaust fumes hits her, making her dizzy for a moment.
Somehow, the world doesn’t even stop turning during the unbearable moments.
When she arrives at the car, she opens the passenger door, climbs in, and whispers, ‘I’m sorry, baby.’
- The Colour of Loss - March 20, 2026
