The intervals between contractions became shorter and the pain unbearably long and violent. The nurse examined her and said she was ready for the delivery room. Still rising up like a balloon and being jerked back with each wave of pain, she clung to her belly as she walked into the delivery room and hoisted herself upon the delivery table. She could vaguely hear the surreal counting of the doctor as she pushed on cue.
Again. And again. And—
A lump slipped out between her legs, or rather, flowed out. She felt a wonderful relief in her belly.
She lay there quietly, waiting to hear the baby’s cries.
Everything was silent.
Neither the doctor nor the nurse moved. No one spoke.
She barely managed to whisper, “What is it? Is it … dead?”
There was no answer.
“Is the baby dead?”
Terror and despair pierced through her blinding-white senselessness and throttled her. She looked about the room and struggled to sit up. A nurse gently took the baby from the doctor and handed it to her.
The “baby” was a black and red, slightly iron-smelling, enormous blood clot.
“What is this?” she asked as she looked around at the doctor and nurses, propping herself up with one arm and holding the baby with the other. The blood clot against her breast was warm.
“I said, what is this?”
“It’s a baby,” snapped the obstetrician. Her face was half-covered with a surgical mask, but her bright blue eyeshadow and pitch-black eyeliner were unmistakable.
“This … this is a baby?”
“I told you to find the baby a father. You were the one who left it to grow without one. This is what you end up with!”
The doctor’s voice was cold, and her eyes seemed to say, This is all your fault.
The blood clot squirmed.
She flinched.
“The baby is looking for its mother,” said the nurse softly, the one who had handed her the “baby.” “Now it’s looking at the mother. Look back into its eyes.”
She could feel the blood clot looking at her as well. But she couldn’t tell where exactly the eyes were, or quite frankly, where its head ended and its body began. Confused, she turned the blood clot about, examining it.
The “baby” kept squirming and suddenly began to shudder. The black-red clot very briefly shone transparent and crystalline, like a blood-colored jewel.
The next moment, the “baby” disintegrated into a pool of liquid blood.
Her hand and chest soaked in blood and her arm still curved from when she had held the baby, she stared down mutely at the ruined front of her gown and the puddle of blood in the middle of the delivery table.
The delivery room door slowly opened. Her first seon date, the ambulance driver, hesitatingly entered the chamber.
“You can’t be in here,” said one of the nurses.
“Oh, I’m … I’m her guardian. Well. Not yet her guardian, but …” He turned to her and stammered, “C-could it be possible if I were your guardian now? I-I was wondering if it wouldn’t be too late …” His words trailed off as he finally read the room and realized she was covered in blood. “Uh … that isn’t …？”
She slowly, mechanically turned her head and stared blankly at the man’s confused face. Then she turned, again slowly, with difficulty, to the dripping puddle of blood on the bed that had once been her baby.
She covered her face with her bloody hands and began to cry. Sobs at first, soon escalating into full-on wails. Whether they were tears of relief, sadness from losing the baby, or of something else entirely, she herself couldn’t tell.
Cursed Bunny
Grandfather used to say, “When we make our cursed fetishes, it’s important that they’re pretty.”
And the lamp, shaped like a bunny rabbit sitting beneath a tree, is truly pretty. The tree part looks a bit fake, but the bunny was clearly made with love and care. The tips of the bunny’s ears and tail are black, as are its eyes, and the body a snowy white. Its material is hard, but its body and pink lips are crafted to look soft to the touch. When the lamp is switched on and the light shines upon it, the bunny looks like it’s about to flick its ears or wriggle its nose.
Every object has a story. This object is no exception, especially as it’s a cursed fetish. Sitting in an armchair next to the bunny lamp, Grandfather tells me the same story he’s already told me time and time again.
The lamp was made for a friend of his.
It is forbidden to make a cursed fetish for personal use. Also according to family tradition, it is forbidden to curse any handmade item. These unwritten rules have been passed down for generations in our family’s line of work: the creation of cursed fetishes.