I got lotsa babies in here she says to me. Her voice comes from the ceiling, but I can see her lips move. Yellow teeth. No irises. On the cracked linoleum floor she stands, in stained sweatpants and a T shirt that goes to her navel. She shifts from one foot to the other, as if she needs to go to the bathroom. She drums her fingers on her tight beachball belly. Lots. Inside here.
No smile, though. She looks angry, crazed. I lie on the floor, bound and gagged, while stark Tesla trees of pale blue crackle and branch about the ceiling. She kicks the side of my head with a bare foot, and, just before I black out again , I see her turn and walk down the hallway. My swoon is only seconds, I think, because I hear the sound of someone peeing. Then a flush.
The slap of bare feet comes closer and she reenters my room, this time wearing only the T shirt. She squats and bows her head, greasy hair dragging the floor. There is no moaning or groaning as she gives obscene birth. Only the repeated sounds eck, eck, eck.
Small wet things dangle and drop. Sharp yellow teeth, no irises. They tear at my restraints with piranha frenzy. I gain my freedom, but am paralyzed in stiffness and horror as they set upon their unwilling mother and begin to eat.
Aremyfeetofftheground 