My Husband Is Infertile, But I'm Pregnant

I regained consciousness still in the bathroom.

Drenched and bloodied, with my stomach painfully contracting.

As I stood up, the bloodstains on the wall reminded me of the previous night's horror.

I had to call the police.

Driven by instinct, I dialed 911.

What's next after calling for help? Preserve the scene, and save the evidence.

Trembling, I snapped photos of the blood on the wall and my injuries, lifting my clothes to document the bruises.

My leg throbbed to the bone as if broken, the sharp pain overshadowing all else.

Lying on the floor all night in the heat, I felt nauseous, my stomach in knots, fearing critters might have scurried over me.

Stop, that thought alone made me want to throw up.

I propped myself up against the toilet, clutching my roiling stomach, desperate to use it but I couldn't.

I feared it'd clear the fingerprints on it.

I endured until the police arrived.

Thankfully, a female officer was there. I clung to her, pleading to use a public restroom.