burialrabbits

At one point the groaning from one of the rooms was so sufficient at claiming my curiosity that it took just a steady and very quiet alarm of inquiry to the old guard at the base of the room, which sent him flying downstairs to the lobby in search of a telephone to put in a call to the homestead to find out for sure whether or not his wife's throat was safe from harm, or if the children still had arms, and with my fists buried in my pockets I approached the source of the groaning, which was a woman with a very large, sea-turtlish belly, her legs hoisted up into shiny steel stirrups. Below her, kneeling down in a way that referenced a catcher waiting diligently behind the batter up, there was a gentleman doctor with the grip of a child's head in his fingers. From the stretched open man-sized hole of the lady's dis-sexualized tissue, a baby head shone white with afterbirth and sweet with the scent of newness, and I pressed my hot fingers into the hard, muscled shoulders of the doctor, and he rubbed the back of his sweaty head against my shirt, and the woman's eyes grew large but not as large as the cave between her birth legs, and I shoved the doctor's face into the hole, his nose no doubt initiating a dent in the soft infant skull, and I pushed and pushed until the whole of his trained face was inside her, and delivered a hard jab to the deliverer's back with the bone of my knee, while leaning over the wonderful man to caress the soft chest of the lady. Shouts of alarm escaped from the surrounding nurses as I climbed the buried doctor like stairs and landed full-bodied on the pregnancy victim, digging my knees into the round childhouse as I bounced up and down spouting suggestions for naming the child, like, "Betty for a girl, and Tommy for a boy! Hank for a boy, or Gingerbread for a girl!"

My suggestions fell upon deaf ears as I watched the blood drain from the face of the woman giving birth.

Signed,
Me.