Julie had been pregnant. Each month passed slower than the last as her belly grew – steps that seemed to get steeper as she climbed – both the difficulty of her life, and the flight of steps to her paediatrician’s office. They still hadn’t installed a ramp. Dozens complained weekly, but nothing was done.
The first nine months were the easy part, it was the months afterwards that were hard.
“Overdue pregnancies are common, Mrs. Anderson,” the doctor explained. “There have been a – a few cases – that have progressed further than yours, with perfectly healthy children.”
The child was still growing inside of her, and she became inflated with more amniotic fluids to compensate, but now she couldn’t walk. Her mother lent her a rusty old wheelchair, and when Julie sat in it, her belly sagged to her knees. Another week, and the wheel shattered. She was in the high street when it happened, pushed around by a friend, and she collapsed into a mass of twisted metal wailing. Disgust filled the heads of those she’d expected to laugh. Eighteen months.
It sucked her dry in ten years. No foetus, nor child, was found in her husk.