Free One Blood by Qwantu Amaru, Stephanie Casher

crawled through the oppressive cloud of smoke toward the door.
    After four gasping crawls, she looked up to gauge how far she was from the exit. It seemed miles away. Then a voice spoke from a few feet in front of her. With the last of her strength dissipating, Juanita looked up.
    A tall figure, wearing a gas mask, stared down at her.
    “ Help me,” Juanita gasped. Her throat was a smoke-filled corridor.
    The figure offered a muffled laugh. “Let’s see how bad he wants you now.”
     
     
    * * * * *
     
     
    Chapter Ten
     
    Nine months later
    1974
    Houston, TX
     
    Juanita lay on a lumpy mattress, legs spread wide. Harsh afternoon sunlight stabbed her through a small, barred window. Instead of giving birth in a hospital, Juanita was in the bedroom of a too small Frenchtown apartment, tucked inside the Fifth Ward ghetto. The one-bedroom safe house she refused to call home was now a prison.
    Malcolm patted her sweat-soaked face with a once-cool rag gone warm.
    Juanita took her eyes away from Malcolm’s dark face. Staring at the scar tissue where his left eye used to be brought unhealthy visions of birthing a baby Cyclops. She knew she needed to focus on bringing this baby into the world, but her mind was stuck in a putrid whirlpool of negativity.
    It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.
    “ Almost time, baby,” Malcolm said, grasping Juanita’s hand in his large sandpaper paw.
    “ God, it’s so hot!” she gasped.
    “ Everything is gonna be fine,” Malcolm said, looking over at Velma Baker, the midwife. Velma was a short and stout woman, fair-skinned like Juanita, known as much for her sense of propriety as her competence. “Right, Velma?”
    Velma responded by spreading Juanita’s legs even wider. “This is it, Juanita,” she said. “I need you to bear down now. Give us one last big push.”
    Heart-rate galloping, Juanita tightened her swollen abdomen until her vision burned and blurred from the sweat and strain. A scream escaped her lips. Despite her exertion, Juanita tried to visualize Walter’s hands gently dabbing the rag against her feverish skin. When she opened her eyes and saw Malcolm hovering over her like a living, breathing nightmare, she remembered Walter was gone forever.
    “ I can see the head! Keep pushing, baby! Keep pushing!” Malcolm shouted.
    He sounded far away, as if he were in the apartment downstairs. Juanita couldn’t feel the mattress beneath her anymore. An all-encompassing bitterness about the life that had been stolen from her left no room for other sensations. She was coldly certain that whatever was inside her, struggling to get out, would not, could not, be human.
    Babies were supposed to be born out of love, yet loathing enveloped her. Juanita squeezed her eyes shut and pushed like her very life depended on it. She needed to get rid of this hatred within her.
     
     
    * * * * *
     
     
    After collapsing on the floor of Walter’s burning office, Juanita had resigned herself to perishing in the inferno. The next time she opened her bleary eyes, she found herself in the backseat of Malcolm’s car, alive. Once she was coherent, Malcolm explained how he burst into the office, found her lying on the floor, nearly lifeless, and dragged her to safety. She asked him repeatedly about Walter, but his only reply was, “I didn’t see him.”
    The newspaper helped Juanita fill in the blanks.
    After the Lake City Fire Department put out the raging fire, they found Walter’s barbecued body in the closet; a pair of bloody handcuffs connected to the desk; a twenty-two caliber pistol with rounds fired; and the body of Carla Bean—the secretary.
    The headline declared, “Foul Play Expected Cause of Death for Mayor Walter Simmons and Secretary: Missing Wife is Lead Suspect.” The police searched for weeks but were unsuccessful in identifying Juanita’s whereabouts.
    Meanwhile, Juanita and Malcolm took up residence in the ghetto safe house in Frenchtown. She tried to goad herself into