A mosquito sneaked into our house last night, probably while I’d wobbled out to get the mail. I’m in the second trimester and feeling puffy.

These parasites have always preferred my husband. You’re the sweet one, I say while I rub cortisone on his itchingbumps. Until I got pregnant, those bugs never liked me.

But last night the high-pitched whine let me know I am now their prey. My instinct was to squish the pest on sight, but when it landed on my left wrist, I hesitated. I’ve read only pregnant females drink blood. Could I murder an expectant creature?That moment of dithering gave the mosquito the time she needed to bite me and draw a sip. I’ve been scratching since.

During one deep scrape, my t-shirt rides up and I catch a glimpse of my belly—swollen, sure, but also, my tummy looks streaked with silver.

That can’t be good.

I faint, reliably, whenever I lose blood. I try to warn the steel-faced Slavic nurse, but she only tells me, You’ll be fine.

I guess I’m fine, but I am seeing spots before the blood draw is over. My lips are numb but a vision stays with me, and afterward the nurse puts a cold diet soda in my hands.

I can still see the needle in my arm, whenever I close my eyes. I thought I had a phobia. But now all I feel is hungry.

Waiting my turn at the OB, I fixate on a suckling baby in the waiting room. I swear I can smell the milk: rich but sour, salty and satisfying. In my belly, something kicks. I don’t crave the milk; I want the piglet.

“Soon,” the Madonna in the waiting room chair assures me. My longing for that infant must be obvious.

“Your labs were normal, nothing to be alarmed by,” my sunny young doctor assures me. “I thought it might be jaundice, but I see healthy vitamin B.” She rattles off good numbers for D and A, says I either take a good vitamin or eat lots of produce.

I do both! I am virtuous! I’d be humiliated by a deficiency.

“I’ll going to put it on your chart as melasma—perfectly normal.”

And I feel almost perfectly normal until I’m back at home. The mosquito buzzes around us again, snuggled on the couch and streaming another scammer documentary; we love seeing a bloodsucker get caught. I never killed her, though she wounded me. But if it’s my egg versus hers, I know whose I will choose.

She lands on my husband this time, just above the soft curve of his cheek. I slap, hard enough to kill, and a burst of both our cherry red blood paints my palm.

He flinches, shocked. Hey! he says, as I lean in deep. There’s that scent I craved—the blood splotch left by the mosquito. I extend my hot tongue to realize I have never tasted anything so sweet, so rich.

Laura Eppinger (she/they) knows that the Jersey Devil is real. Laura's work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize as well as Best of the Net. Follow Laura: facebook.com/eppingermonsters