by Audrey Walls
I should have named her Jackie or Mia. Maybe Beatrix. Maybe Melanie, my little surfer girl. I should have guessed that this much violence wouldn’t faze me. She fits and starts, latching with her toothless mouth. She pulls at my nipple like pink taffy. I love you, honey bunny. These are the hardest days. The nurses said they pass so quickly, another morning, another night, the continual rounds of piss and shit. It is a different movie. Behind her tufted head, Brad Pitt scalps a Nazi. Or maybe now it’s Uma jolted back to life. That black wig. All that adrenaline and blood. Either way, I don’t flinch. I could tell you a horror story. It starts like this.