I Threw an Effigy-Burning Bonfire for My Female Rage
Miscarriage, abortion, abandonment, and the mythical avengers of wronged women.
Illustrations by Micky Walls | Edited by Lilly Dancyger
I was in my kitchen, prepping for my revenge party; wrapping my toga, dabbing fake blood around my eyes and straightening the crown of papier-mâché snakes on my head. I believed that the evening had all the elements of success: An angry pregnant woman with a boyfriend on the lam, an epic Greek theme, and the chance to torch an effigy.
That was before my brother’s boyfriend texted the first hole in my plan: “I’m not coming to your party because I don’t hate men.”
I did, I guess, and that was the problem. That’s why I was dressed like a Fury, one of an ancient Greek trio of bad bitches with similar sartorial inclinations. In the old days, the Furies had one job: hunt down unpunished sinners and hound them into contrition. They swooped down on thieves, blasphemers and mother-killers out of blue skies – snake hair flying, eye blood forever on point. Swooped down and punished. I was three months pregnant, and my boyfriend had walked out …