Razor Wire Pubic Hair Read Online Free PDF Page A

turns the child away from me, pressing it to her pasty nipple.  "I know she doesn’t seem human, but it’s your fault.  You are the father!"
                "No," the Sister enters, stepping to the child to drip cunt-sweat onto its bubble-chest, "it’s a monster because your incubator’s old and rusty.  I told you to get a new one."
                "It’s not a monster!" Celsia hollers at her leaky sister.  "All babies look this way!"
                The Sister smears her juice on the baby like oil, staring into its bulgy black eyeballs. 
                Turning dizzy-gazed, I examine the machine the infant came from.  It is large enough to contain dozens of babies, filled with wires and meat, plugged into the wall.  A hole centers, dripping with food and slime, crunchy hair surrounding the soggy opening, bleeding, trembling, waiting to be sewn up.
                "Look," the Sister says, "it’s smiling."         
                "A flesh bag," Celsia comments.  "But still a beautiful one."
                "Yes," says the Sister, "Like a fancy purse!"
     

CHAPTER TWENTY
     
     
                At times, Celsia hits me for no apparent reason.  She gets red-faced and just strikes out, hits my knuckles with a hammer to make the skin curl away.  And she doesn’t even care about her new baby lying crooked on the table.
                I’m raw inside, my cunt feels like sandpaper meat on the walls, crunchy knives coming out.  Spiders appear on me sometimes to eat scabs from me, take pieces of my neck.
                Sometimes Celsia gets mad at the sun for never shining and runs outside, throws a hammer into the air at it.  But it never flies higher than a dozen feet before falling, a thud on the ground sending particles of green and orange dust into clouds.
                She doesn’t touch her razor wire pubic hair at all during the orange-frustration moments.  As if it is not as intense to touch anymore.  She treats it like grass or normal head hair instead of sharp flesh-slicing metal that her nerves -- and mine -- usually quiver to.  Even the deepest cuts on the inside of her thighs aren’t enough to excite her.
                On these days, the people in the attic speak in whispers in the shape of rose bushes, thorns hooking into my brain, cutting delicately along the veiny lines clustered amongst the plump tubes under skull.
                Celsia doesn’t seem to hear them, as if her brain has been washed of their sound, even when they hit high pitches her ears do not rise or twitch like mine, ignoring them until they are numb-nothingness to her. 
                She is bleeding on the ground, resting her legs from her bush, her tender parts open to the tangy air.  If she calls me over, I know it’s because she wants a painful fuck, sex as a weapon.
               
     

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
     
     
                The Sister does acrobats on the ceiling.  She calls it her exercises, but doesn’t tell me how she gets up there and doesn’t fall.  The melty baby lies on the floor underneath and doesn’t say anything or do anything.  It just sits there and complains about how ugly it is. 
                When the Sister sweats, it drips like rain onto my dinner plate and onto the wiggling baby/thing, the vaginas covering her body become soggy for my services, penetrating eyes at me as she bends backwards, folding herself into halves.
                Celsia doesn’t know the Sister uses me at night, sneaking fucks there and here, and the Sister makes me keep it a secret.  She knows Celsia wouldn’t let her waste my energy on anyone without her presence.
                Right now, Celsia is on the roof, making sure the rapists do not attack.  She has been afraid of them ever since the baby was born.  The rapists move like wolves,