| " | \n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\tCassandra snorted through clenched teeth. It was too late to be having second thoughts, she reminded herself. She couldn't turn back now; not after what she'd done. Not after the living nightmare that was her last foaling: thirty-six hours of labor only to have the colt perish mere minutes before the end. She couldn't let it happen again - she decided this foal was going to live dammit, and when Cassie decides something, she follows through. So she took a swig of rubbing alcohol, taking advantage of her species' inability to vomit, and then a second for luck. With shaking hands she grabbed the serrated hunting knife by the blade and tugged upwards from the bottom of her gut, little by little, careful not to cut too deeply. Blood poured from the wound. She shrieked with pain and her eyes welled with tears. Tacky viscera erupted from the incisions and spilled all over her arms. Her sight began to blur around the edges, and her head was getting heavier by the moment. She grabbed her guts, trying to keep them co-located and felt the kick of her offspring against the thin barrier. Against her better judgement, she looked down. She was almost done . . .\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t | \n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t