The soft stain grew.
With infant softness, she whimpered and sighed.
Tonight, I look at her as she lay there. The light from the hallway falling on her body, flung across the floor. A thick, raw, curdling smell rankles around my nose. Her pink panties stretch between her parted thighs, soaked and darkened. Her head lolls to the right,
Smears wipe from her swollen navel, down her thighs, like finger paint.
The clothes hanger lay next to her right foot.
She shivers and jerks. I drop to my knees and turn her comfortably with her head in my lap. The raw curdling smell crowds in and takes the milky soap away.
She claws with a burgundy washed hand at the quivering bulge.
The only thing I hear is a steady, quick drip from the bathroom faucet. I can feel her muscles tightening and seizing.
The soaking and darkening gets worse and the smell keeps pushing at me, telling me to move, telling me to leave. I hold on to her and try to rock the misery away. The scared, agitated muscles slow down. Her face smoothes itself out and I sit, darkened, listening to the quick drip, petting the winter dark hair, trying to smell the milky soap.
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