Rip It Out!

Looking down at her swollen feet and glittering gold minx pedicure, Devra Lee Truce can barely believe the three numbers swelling red on the digital scale.  Biting back bile, she madly blinks her lemon-drop brown eyes.  "No f-ing way," she growls, craning her neck forward past her abnormally swollen stomach with the ugly black hairy tar line zipping down the middle.   285.  582. 825. Anyway she shuffles the numbers, the end-result is equivalent to a dark Antarctic day in hell.  She weighs as much as an iceberg.

Feeling woozy, she slowly steps off the scale, all the while avoiding looking at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.  "Pregnancy glow my ass," mumbling to herself, Devra struggles to tie the triple extra-large silk bathrobe around her middle hump.  A week past her due date, she feels absolutely no desire to meet the human floating inside of her.  All she wants to do is rip it out and throw it in the trash.

A boy.  A no-good 10 plus pound sneaky Mason Truce Jr.  She can't even shop for Dolce & Gabbana dresses and matching velvet head bands. 

"Like the world needs anymore disgusting men,"  muttering, hobbling and ignoring the sharp pain shooting through the fat of her left giggling buttock, Devra yearns for the days when she could actually sleep on her stomach. "At least breast-feeding is supposed to help get the weight off." 

Lisette's beating, though painful as it may have been transformed Devra into a beautiful delicate Amazonian swan and this baby, in a matter of a few long months had managed to undo all remnants of plastic surgery, extreme dieting, and intense pulsed light cellulite treatments, taking with it all the buckets of exquisiteness she only briefly possessed.

Doubling over, Devra grabs the edge of the marble sink and staggers to the toilet.  The searing pain coursing through her skeleton practically brings her to her swollen knees.  Devra screams out to her husband, famed attorney Mason Truce, but he isn't home.  He never is.  He's too busy chasing after children he's never known.  Children who are no doubt dead.  Her nephews and nieces.  Lisette's kids.

Lisette.

Devra refuses to accept her sister is dead.  As much as she hates her, she can still feel that evil heifer in her own bones.  "Argh!"  Devra manages to sit on the toilet gripping the sides of her stomach.  "This has got to be the worst gas ever!  Dear holy father in heaven have mercy on a bitch!"  Blood streams down Devra's brown legs pooling on the white marble tile and around her bare feet.  Beneath Devra's moans there's a splash.  Faintly she recognizes a baby's screams.  Her baby.  The walls begin to pulse and surge just as Devra collapses to the floor, but not before she tries flushing the toilet.

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