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A Freudian Nightmare.
Her skin is translucent, terrifying because of its delicacy. It spread thinly over her bones, the hollows in her throat lending strange shadows to her face and a highlight to her hair, magnificently rarifying her. It gleamed, loose and frantic over her shoulders. She leaned heavily on the wall, her forearm pressed flat against it; a bruised was forming dark on her pale skin, exemplifying the strain. Her breath was heavy, diseased. It was disgusting.
Her breasts lifted erratically, pulsating, convulsing strangely alive over her tired shape.
The infant's head rocked against her chest, beating against her as she fed it absently, letting it rest on her arm.
It drank thickly, in a sort of frenzy. Milk ran down the sides of its mouth and pooled around its clavicles. Its lips were hanging limply; hanging on with small teeth, chewing furiously.
The woman dropped her arm slowly, letting it fall to her side, pressed to the wall. Her face was expressionless and sheened with sweat. She let herself slide down, slowly, hitting the ground gently. Her legs sprawled out around her, bared covered. The child reached up to grip the base of her neck, feeling for the narrow bones. He pulled his head back from the nipple to stare at her, watching his fingers trace over her clavicles. They jutted out strangely from her neck, obscenely stretching the skin. It was unbearable to look at. Down, her chest was ridged and hollow with small tired breasts separated by a pale and hardly concealed ribcage. She refused to look at him, sitting stiffly, shifting so the baby fell to her stomach, his legs splayed out over the flat plane of it.
Milk leaked from the abandoned nipple and slid slowly off her sides, rending her translucent, more vividly and terribly tragic.
He rolled the clavicle between his dense fingers. His hand went numb, hovering tiny over her throat, tingling as the blood flooded from his fingertips.
The mother slowed her breathing, drowning out her heartbeat and forcing a rhythm onto his vague movement.
The infant closed his eyes, leaning heavily into the sound with his head on her sternum.
He blinked, awake, and colors swam around his eyes in quick succession and bursts of intense vibration over his skin. A strange smell possessed them, he laughed at it, small delicate lips spreading in the delicately wild trill of it, somehow terrible, unspeakable as it poured from the fetal mouth. Milk spurt from it, staining his cheeks white, bleached repulsively. He put his fragile hand on the strange wetness, more alive with it. It was thick and sticky as he moved his fingers in it, spreading it down his chin. He sucked his hand to take it in.
It gripped him with the most immaculate sense of terror. The infant's eyes went wide, the fear creeping up his body with a strange crude pleasure, nauseating in his constricted throat. Derangement of the senses by finding them.
It went black all around him as he fell asleep, putting his palms to his mother's stomach, flat to feel it. Her skin was dry and hot, like madness exploding wild beneath him.
There was nothing to give up. It's the best part.
He woke up, finally, abruptly shaking wildly with his lips drawn back over his teeth screaming. He looked up. There was nothing. The woman was staring up at the ceiling, blankly with an emptily defiling glance, shadows painting her with an unattainable innocence. It was a desert of skin. He kept crying, her eyes passed up and over him. The infant touched his cheek lightly and spread the sticky wetness over her stomach, driving it down.