My legacy is counted through stains.

A patch of muddied red clings to the bright yellow cloth. Its died cotton expanse proven durable through the years. Threads coil from green trim, an accidental tassel that continues to unwind despite sharp tugging. The cloth molds nicely to my body, telling of consistent wear, yet the double-stitch lining suggests its continued usefulness.

My hands scrub in small jerking movements, the suds twine along my palms and bubbles pop at my fingertips.

I was caught unaware and the red reminds me of my thoughtlessness.

Back and forth, more dispensary soap, more cold water. Foam drops spray and pearls dot my hair.

The blood won’t come out.

Jerk, jerk, soap, rinse, squint. The movement is familiar.

Varying hued lines remain. The crisscrossed pattern a neon sign. Brows draw together,
lips purse.

Jerk, soap, jerk, rinse. A monthly dance.

I raise my hands, hoping that the light will make all those layered reds disappear.

Soap, jerk, soap, rinse.

The faded paths remain, seemingly darker this time.

I glare at the cloth. I had made more progress developing blisters on my pruned fingers then restoring the color of the fabric. Each cycle brings a new layer, a consequence of this game of anticipation. I thought I had played rather well this time, eliminating lighter colors from my outfits, sticking to comfortable pants, the constant checking. An endless list of constraints.

Has it happened yet? Can I really wear that? Where’s the nearest bathroom?

At the soft metal squeak, my eyes dart up to the mirror to see the stall door swing open behind me. A woman glances at my vain attempts and the running water. A courtesy smile twitches at her lips. My figure hunches forward trying to hide my failure. I grimace, half-embarrassed, half-ashamed that I feel embarrassed.

All these reds: my numbed hands, the patch on the cloth, bright splotches swirling in the
toilet, streaks running down my thighs, the new tampon sitting at an odd angle.

Me and my stains.

Jerk, soap, rinse, jerk. So much effort for such an insignificant piece of clothing.

A cramp rolls through in time with my scrubbing. As if to say: “I got you. You were too slow.”

The game was certainly harder these past months. I had deleted my iPhone health data after the end of Roe to ensure my privacy, opting to tune in to my body’s signals. The recent cravings for salt and chocolate, an ill-timed pimple, irritation over simple mistakes. The tells were all there but I had read them incorrectly—rationalized as stress over a procrastinated essay or disappointing exam score. Now, I worshiped a worn piece of clothing under cold water, praying no one else would come into the bathroom.

The red mocked me.

More soap, jerk, jerk, squint.

Thank the stars I was not in white, or stuck in class, or simply doing anything far from a bathroom. I want the cramps to stop, for the pad to sit properly; I want a thick chocolate bar and some extra-salted fries. I want the blood to come out and I do not want anyone to ask if I am on my period.

Jerk, jerk, jerk.

This cloth mattered, it comforted me and spoke of my history.

Even if I threw away this underwear, my stains remain.

-Ava Galbraith

Ava Galbraith is fascinated by unexpected turns in stories. She dives deep into characters’ psyches and uses stream of consciousness to tell stories. Her work has been published in over a dozen literary magazines, including The Dewdrop, San Joaquin Review, Open: Arts & Literary Magazine, BrightFlash1000, CP Quarterly, among others. When not developing intriguing flash fiction, she competes in equestrian show jumping and enjoys emerging herself in foreign cultures. Ava lives in Tucson, Arizona.