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.