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Birth of Fury

Casey Swithin is a fucking nightmare.

By the time she was twenty-five, she’d had seven abortions. She said she enjoyed them. Sure, they were painful, but isn’t childbirth painful, too? And her reward was not getting a kid out of the bargain. Score! It wasn’t just that she loathed children (although she did—the pesky little runts). She considered it a political message. The Repugnican Party insisted on pushing the envelope, forcing the Democraps to make the conversation about “cases of rape” and still spectacularly lose. But abortions should be a fundamental human right. So she’d set herself up as the radical liberal answer. She treated it as a tradition, conceiving every year around Christmas as a present to herself and then having the procedure as close to the end of the first trimester as she could legally get away with.

When she fucked the fathers—and you had to be a special kind of asshole to be a father to one of her delicious mini-corpses—she always used a condom, because “Ew—diseases?” But she was always careful to make sure it was one of her condoms, with a series of pinprickholes right through the top. If any of them ever noticed, she’d say “Oops” and promise to take a pill after they left, but it’s not like any of them would ever know.

This time, the lucky bitch was a Skandinavian stock broker vacationing in Manhattan who called himself “Gus”. Seriously? Gus? With that suit? Whatever, dude. He was working on some kind of trade deal that had to do with oil or steel or some other fucking chemical destroying the world. And while he wasn’t wearing a ring on his finger, he also wasn’t exactly disguising the indent that showed it was there.

Did she think of him as a victim? Probably. Because Casey Swithin thought that she was in control.

Then she woke up tied to the bed.

Gus wasn’t just a businessman. He was Norway’s Donald Fucking Trump. But as fate would have it, he had never been able to conceive a child. Until he met Casey Swithin.

For the next nine months, she strained against her bonds and felt the parasite growing deep inside her. When she got too close to breaking free, there were guards to catch and restrain her and doctors to pump her full of drugs—

“But will they hurt the baby?” asked the man who was doing this to her, his voice full of concern for the source of her problems. And he received plenty of reassurance.

Finally, the day arrives. She’s the size of a house, which really, she is, right now, for a living, not-quite-yet-breathing entity and when the evil doctor tells her to push, she thinks she’s never been happier, she thinks finally this shit is going to be over and out of the way and she can pay for that goddamn hysterectomy if that’s what it takes, she’ll fucking abandon her political bullshit if that’s what it takes for this all to be fucking over.

But then she sees the kid.

Fuck.

The baby.

Fucking hormones making her go fucking apeshit over this bullshit little twerp she never wanted to have anything to do with, who’s responsible for the worst fucking year of her life. Fuck her traitor arms for wanting to hold this kid, her leaky fucking chest aching to feed it. Why can’t she just look the fuck away?

“You have a daughter,” they tell the shithead and for a minute there, this guy, this fucking worst guy in the world, looks fucking disappointed and he actually says “Well, it’s better than nothing, I suppose.”

“Well,” he tells her once it’s all over, “I suppose you’ve suffered enough.” And they toss her out of a van near the beach close to a hospital on Long Island. Long Fucking Island. And she knows she’ll never be able to track this asshole down, and even if she does, it wouldn’t do her any good. No matter what she does, that asshole’s still going to raise her daughter—and why the fuck does she even care?

Fucking maternal fucking instincts.

So instead of the hospital, she goes to a bar. They insist on calling an ambulance, but at least she gets herself a whiskey out of the deal. What a fucking nightmare.

Meanwhile, idiot drunk at the bar looks at her, all beat to shit, and actually licks his lips. She thinks really hard about how she’s gonna kill him.

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About Polypsyches

I write, regardless of medium or genre, but mostly I manage a complex combined Science-Fiction/Fantasy Universe--in other words, I'm building Geek Heaven. With some other stuff on the side. View all posts by Polypsyches

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