Return to Sender
So for the last nine months, I just thought my wife was getting fat. Really fat. I really did. She didn't look pregnant. She ate so fucking much her whole body expanded, and that bump where the baby was hiding was dwarfed by her massive saggy tits, and her legs as round as damn garbage cans.
And anyways, I didn't have any reason to think that she was pregnant. But, apparently, this cow of a wife had lied about taking her birth control pills. Had lied about not wanting to try having another baby. And she tries to fucking cover it up by getting fat as hell.
Most women, after five still borns, they tend to give up. And I didn't even want a stupid kid.
But obviously, with a fucking idiot of a wife like this, she waits until she's having a fucking heart attack while we're eating breakfast to tell me. A heart attack. Breakfast. I'm trying to eat my fucking breakfast and read the newspaper and my wife decides to start dying. The first words she says to me in three days, "I think I'm having a heart attack. Call an ambulance. I'm nine months pregnant."
What the fuck.
Atleast it was over before I could fold up the newspaper and finish my coffee.
But now I'm sitting here staring at my ocean liner of a wife and for some reason I feel sympathy. Not towards her, obviously, but towards that stupid tumor growing inside of her. That lie she tried to cover up with one hundred pounds of fat. So I do what makes sense.
I flop what I can of my dead, fat wife up onto the table, release the rolls of fat being held down by her shirt, and grab a steak knife. Now I'm no doctor, but I've seen my share of medical shows on TV. And one thing I knew for sure, this patient was already dead and it didn't matter what I did to it.
So I pick a particularly large roll of fat about where I think a baby might be hiding and force the knife about three inches deep into the thick red line left from her stomach folding over on itself. I force the serrated blade down, slicing and sawing through the glistening white layers of fat.
And let me tell you. I don't know if you've ever tried to saw through a real fatty porterhouse steak, but that's nothing compared to trying to saw through almost ten inches of dead wife. My arm was getting sore as hell, something I was surprised by considering I had been jacking off twice a day for the last half year.
So while I'm sawing through this mound of flesh, this mess of guts and fat and whatever else the serrated blade is pulling up with it. While I'm sawing through this, the rest of her blood pressure is being released through the massive arteries I've cut along the way, and all this blood is pouring out over the table, and pooling on the floor. This all makes the footing I was using to force the knife in and out really slippery.
More fucking work for me.
So to speed things up I flip on the gas range top to high and heat the blade over it to a sterile glowing red. As I jab it back into my wife, the blade sizzles the fat. Literally cooking it. It spits liquified droplets up onto my white shirt leaving small pinkish stains everywhere. The kitchen smells like a fucking barbeque and now I'm getting hungry. I shoot my cold, unfinished eggs a glance. Couldnt she have just waited a couple of minutes to die.
At least the knife is cutting through her like a hot blade through, well, a dead, obese wife.
And when I say my wife is fat, I mean it. She put on at least a hundred and fifty pounds over the last nine or so months. And all of this rapid weight gain really stretched her skin out and left no time for her body to compensate. So all of this pressure, all of this tension, has built up in the skin forced to stretch over her enormous gut. And while I'm cutting this away, the tension is literally tearing her bulging gut apart, and the skin is all peeling and rolling back now that it's been relieved.
Now she has this huge cut all the way across her stomach, and all the skin is peeled back, with the edges burned darker all the way around, and blood is dripping all over, and all I can think is, god damnit, this looks like a huge fucking vagina, and it's on its fucking period.
It's on the rag trying to get rid of the egg it accidentally held onto for nine months too long.
So I stuff my fists down through the slick layers of fat, down through the intestines and whatever else I'm trying to fight my way through. I'm wiggling my hands around trying to find this stupid baby. Like finding a needle in a slimy haystack.
Finally I wrap my hands around what feels like a head, but for all I know it could be a liver.
I'm no doctor.
I pull this damn thing out by the skull. Holding it there with one outstretched arm. Like a basketball. This bloody kid hanging down. Dripping placenta and chunks of guts all over my blood stained floor. It doesn't really look like it's alive, but I can feel a faint heartbeat pumping through its soft skull.
But as I sit there and stare at this thing, I start to remember how little I want it. How much I don't want it. And this wriggling waste of life starts to cry. Like it knows what I'm thinking. Like it wants me to love it.
I stand there staring at it for a minute, but ultimately I realize what I have to do. It's the same thing you should do with anything you find laying around. I'm going to put this damn thing right back where I found it.
I could never let it grow up, loving it. This lie. Always a reminder of what an ignorant bitch my wife was. I don't want any part of her to live on in any way. That's why I ground up all the birth control pills and put them in her coffee the other times she was pregnant. That's why she had five other dead babies.
And no matter how much this little shit wiggles and cries and pleas it's going back and nothing is going to change my mind.
I force open the two lips of this giant, dripping vagina I carved into my dead wife's gut and start cramming her spawn head first right back where I found it. Back through the slippery white fat, back through the intestines, back down through whatever else I dug through to get it out.
Like some sort of reverse abortion.
I grab a needle and thread from the sewing kit my wife had to keep around to fix all of the holes she kept tearing in her clothes when she bent over. And with the baby stuffed deep inside of her. With a faint murmer of crying. With the faint coughing of the baby from the pools of its mother's blood and liquefied fat it's starting to swallow. With no remorse. I sew this gaping vagina up from end to end, and I roll my fat wife off the table. With a splash that sprays a thin layer of blood over the kitchen, over me, she finally lays at rest on the floor.
Problem solved. End of story.
Fifteen seconds in the microwave and my eggs are good as new.
And I'm telling all of this to my state appointed psychiatrist. And her, she's just sitting there, staring at me. Staring at the words coming out of my mouth. Her jaw dropped just a bit to expose her white teeth. The air rushing in and out drying out her lips and leaving white crust in the corners.
She's sitting there staring at me with this look of hatred. The same look I was giving that god damned baby. Wishing she could put back what she brought out of me. Wishing she could just cram those words back into my mouth and sew it shut.