Withering Away

“Hey Cowboy, are you up for a ride?” She says that with a wicked smirk on and her legs spread, wearing only that apron with the skulls I had given her a few years ago. Black skulls with bright red smiles, matching her own; only her lipstick is smudged at the corners, almost dripping down her chin.

“Earth to Cowboy, do you read me?” Why does she have to always smile with those slightly crooked teeth showing, tongue curled at the edge of her mouth? Her expressions are so unique; her face is so beautiful my heart aches.

“Always up for a ride, Princess.” As I sweep her off her wheelchair, the right, scarred side of her face grinds against my chest; a crispy sound, as if the jagged edges of her skin grip onto my blouse. She always had been clingy, ever more so nowadays, in her own special way. But I can’t laugh with my jokes today, I cannot afford it.

“I think I’m gaining weight again.” She laughs, throwing her one good arm around my neck. The other, stuck in that uncomfortable, inward position that screams “distorted”, lies on her lap; her feet dangle lifeless off my arms that form a swing beneath them. The few hair that’s left on her hair, copper, smells like burning wood and smoke and strawberries.

“I think She will be a big, big girl. Nothing like her momma.” I hear the huffing of the pillow under my body as I sit on the couch, her body leaning against me in all its swollen glory. For such a frail frame, the gigantic belly towering over everything else looks nearly terrifying! I can’t help but stare in awe and amazement as her breathing makes this enormous mass heave and fall: I want to scream, sing, cry and pray, all at once. Too bad I’m not much of a believer; all of my prayers have been long forgotten. My morbid fear hasn’t.

“Honey? Are you still here with me?” I hear her say. She clasps the apron with her fingers – the ring shines on her middle one, a bright red color. Is the apron tight around her belly? Is she warming up? It must be pretty hot in here, for sure. My feet are icy cold…

I cover her hand with my own and swiftly undo the messy bow supporting the cloth; it collapses. Now she’s naked in my arms, her body decorated with patches of angry, red skin that falls apart when you lay eyes on it, some as big as my open palm, others tiny as a nail. I sigh as I lay my head flat between her breasts; they’re swollen too, like her belly. Two firm mounds of liquid life.

“You look amazing.”

“I look fat.” But her hand caresses the unmoving balloon that is her stomach. The balloon is oozing transparent goo and my heart falls to my feet. It bounces up and then stays in place, and  I am back to my normal self.

“Can you imagine being thin and pregnant?” I manage to smile. The thought amuses me. A short silence follows my joke, and I lift my head up to face her. She’s smiling too. A fragile smile.

“I can imagine not seeing my body thin again.” And then we seize talking.

We will wait for another month; we will welcome our daughter to the world. She will hold her baby against her burnt flesh, hold her with one arm, look at her with one good eye.

And then I will kiss her lips goodbye.