Sweet Silence
Sunlight peeks through a slit in the curtains. She rolls
over, sighs, stretches.
So rested. Not for months - over four - has she slept more
than 3 hours at a time.
She listens. Sweet silence. Dare she risk a shower?
The bliss of warm water cascading over the bulges and bumps
where previously was sleek flesh. A moment of luxury, pure self-indulgence.
Remembering how it felt, not to be so exhausted.
Breasts bulging, she slips on her dressing gown. Tiptoes to
the bedroom doorway.
The scent of powder and milkiness and soap and skin
tantilises her nostrils. A surge of
longing.
Silence. Too much silence.
Horror shoots up her spine. She leaps across the room,
throws herself at the cot and grabs up the form.
Limp. Lifeless. Cold.
Breasts pouring milky
tears. Dry retching fear. Breath stolen from her lungs.
“My baby!” she
screams to an empty house.
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