I often take a wander in the outside world. Usually, it's when she's passed out. I think the sight of me would scare her to death which, in a sense, wouldn't be a bad thing.
It's warm in there, sometimes a little too warm. I get what I need, I guess, but I'm also provided with the vices of life which are already having disastrous effects on my development.
I hear the world outside, muffled though it is. I can get a sense of what's going on by the volume of the voices. Usually, it's something bad. Just the other day I was tossed around like I was on a ship in choppy seas because some moron punched her in the stomach. She probably deserved it, knowing her the way I do.
She's asleep, so I decide to go on a little nighttime stroll and see what the damage is. Turning myself is easy, and I've become an expert in opening her wound. I peel her apart and a pale light comes seeping into the red darkness. I squeeze myself through and slide to the floor, landing with a wet thump.
The flat, as usual, is in total disarray. Empty beer cans, ashtrays overflowing with discarded cigarette butts. Takeaway trays, dozens of them, all with the congealed and fatty remains clinging to the insides of their polystyrene carcases. The television is still on. Some kind of horror. Blood, gore.
I wander through the flat as far as this umbilical will allow. There's not much to see, anyway. The place is barren. No wallpaper, no carpet. I can just make it to the threshold of my nursery. How shameful it is. No toys, no crib, no musical mobile. Someone, to their credit, has tried to put up some wallpaper, but they must've given up to participate in some other activity, drinking or drug taking because the paper is hanging drunkenly from the wall.
I try to take a step forward, but I feel the tug of the cord as it pulls on the bloody placenta and she lets out this hideous, snarling snore which causes me to jump and head back through to the living room.
She's asleep on the couch. She's naked. Why is she always naked? The light from the TV illuminates her pale and waxy skin. I climb onto the couch beside her. What a waste of a life. Her face is literally crumbling away. I can see her bones sticking through her skin as if trying to break free.
I don't want this. Who would?
I find paper and a pen and I write her a letter. I thank her for showing me this hollow life. I guess, in a way, she's saved me from the horrors of living.
I crawl back inside. The warmth envelops me. I take the chord and tie it around my neck and pull. She screams.
