A Good Mother

Author’s note: I bailed on trying to publish this piece. A lot of magazines shut down in December, and I didn’t want to sit on it. It’s also in a weird lane where it’s too genre for most literary places and not-genre-enough for the horror places, so I figured I’d put it here instead.

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After checking on the children–safe asleep–she sat on the edge of the tub and studied the new swell of her abdomen. She had always been stick-like, but had softened into something rounder, lower, a shape with purpose. “Pear-shaped,” the magazines said. Lately she ate constantly, but the hunger only sharpened.

She showered in lukewarm water, then cracked the window to let in cold night air. She was always too hot now. Toweled herself dry and did her make-up. Her lashes were thick enough to not need any help, but a little eye shadow made her already large eyes impossible to escape. She tilted her head in the mirror, testing angles.

Heels and a mini dress that shifted through shades of emerald depending on the light. One last night-out before motherhood fully consumed her.

The bar lights were low but irritated her eyes. Heat gathered at the back of her neck as she threaded through the crowd, every body in the room glowing like hot coals. She claimed an empty stool. Music thumped through the metal rung beneath her heels. The bartender caught her eye and lifted his chin, questioning. She waved him off.

It didn’t take long. A man eased into the seat next to her, his cologne warm and citrusy. “As long as you don’t mind,” he said.

She turned her head just enough to take him in. Strong forearms. Soft hands. A pulse flickering at his left temple. She kept her lips pressed together, the hint of a smile.

He took her quiet for shyness and angled his body toward hers.

“Long week?” he asked.

She nodded, watched other women in the bar and mimicked their movements–how they leaned in, where they put their hands. He bloomed open.

She knew what she needed to know, and within minutes she also knew everything about his job, his car, his teams.

By the time the bedroom door closed, he was already reaching for her, pulling her close. She let him undress her. Let him be excited. His pulse thudded wildly under her hands—loud, rhythmic, irresistible.

It was over quickly but long enough for her. He was asleep soon after. She went still and watched his pulse settle back into a calm, steady beat. The room fell away; only the rhythm remained.

A faint tremor passed through her jaw before it loosened, then unhinged and widened with a wet sigh.

He didn’t wake when her mandibles closed around his neck and severed his head from his body.

She carried the final egg case to the cellar and hung it beside its siblings. The rows swayed softly in the dim warmth, a dry rustling whispering through the dark.

She lay on the dirt floor beneath them, her abdomen resting heavy, her breath slowing, unnecessary now.