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The universe had settled into the business of taking things away from him: the baby, his simple married happiness, the sensual enjoyment he took from the smell of pines.
Marianne would hate to sleep alone while the wind roared and peeled shingles off the roof. The thought pleased him. He felt she had earned herself a lonely night, sneaking around on him, trying to get rid of the pram on the sly.
He thought it wasn’t a baby at all, only something wearing the idea of a baby, and wearing it badly.
The infant stank of mildew and old blood. It smelled like the scene of a slaughter. Which it turned out this was.
He had fed it on his rage, but now that it was bigger, he supposed it needed something more substantial.
The onlookers waited patiently while the child gorged itself, wiggling deeper and deeper into the hole it had torn in Willy’s midsection. I’m carrying, he thought, and would’ve laughed if he had any air in his lungs. I am great with child.
