“suffer little foetus”
The
previous night’s note lay upon the bedside table, a trail of purple wax across
the paper and the crayons’ bright scatter roundabout.
ache1
glanced at it as she dressed and only paused when stepping from her pyjama
bottoms to see that her belly was scabbing, the ridges of dried blood granted
time enough to harden and discolour as the torn skin converged underneath. She
had not been scratching. The note lay upon the table and suddenly she
understood herself to have not been subjecting her abdomen to the fitful and
near-nightly raking of the nails she kept purposefully short to minimise such
damage.
After
a room service breakfast with E.T. staring blindly at the wall, she sorted
through the pages covered in psychic childish babble, comprehending at last the
process of healing continuing beneath her clothes, such ingress now usurped by
its procreant imperative.
