She’s growing his child, too bad it’s the only part of him she can’t throw up.
—-
The morning light bled faintly through the curtains,casting soft shadows across the room. I sat up in bed, eyes drawn to the man sleeping on the couch my husband, contractually so. Alex.
His bare chest rose and fell rhythmically, one arm behind his head, the other resting against his stomach like he had no care in the world. Of course he didn't. He never did. Meanwhile, I was growing someone else inside me and barely holding it together.
I studied his face, disgust blooming beneath the surface of my skin.
And yet, I couldn't stop watching him. It was like poking at a bruise, it was painful but addictive. I imagined a thousand different ways to hurt him. To see him unravel. To make him weep into his hands
