#no processing time

You rock him for a while until you’re sure he’s fast asleep, and settle him down in his crib, putting the wireless on to keep him company. You rub at your wrists. Maybe you shouldn’t wear these bracelets every day while you do chores, they’re getting a little sore. But they’re just so pretty. Your thoughts are interrupted as you hear your husband’s car pull into the driveway.

Sure enough, he’s soon in the hallway hanging up his hat. As soon as he sees you, he breaks into a huge toothy smile. The parallel with his son makes you burst out in a little bark of laughter. He has you scooped up in his arms in seconds, kissing your lips and neck. “What’s so funny?” You wave the question away, as you’re hit by the scent of his hair pomade and cologne. You catch him stealing a glance at your cleavage and you give him a look of mock reproach. He blushes and gives an apologetic laugh of his own. God, he looks so young when he does that, despite the flecks of grey in his hair. He still has a trace of your lipstick on his lower lip.

“Daddy!” your daughter comes charging down the stairs and immediately thrusts her hands out for inspection “Mummy painted my nails just like hers, look!”. “Oh my GOODNESS!” he exclaims, picking her up and swinging her around to her squeals of delight before holding her on his hip, hiding the effort it takes as she’s grown. “Just look at those beautiful nails, what a little lady!”

“Will I be as pretty as Mummy one day?” she asks. He adopts a comical look of shock “One day?” He holds her up in front of him so he can see both of you at the same time. He adopts a terrible American accent  “Look at that, a coupla redhead knockouts! How’d I get so lucky?” You all share a laugh as he kisses her on the forehead and says “Go outside and play for a bit, princess. I need to talk to Mummy.”

Mission received, she gives a determined nod and heads out at full speed. You turn to ask what's the matter but he's already on you, scooping you up in his strong arms, lowering you to the couch and passionately kissing your neck. You hear yourself gasp and immediately flush. You love him so much. He's your everything: so handsome, so kind, so clever and funny. You'd give every inch of yourself to him and more.

You feel like you're losing the ability to think as he kisses and gropes you, as you just gaze up into his eyes, breathing heavily, you don't want to think any more, you just want him to tell you what to do for him, you’ll do anything. He looks down at you, beaming. “You know how we wanted another baby, but we didn't know if we could afford it?” You nod, your lips part. You're past words now. “Well, guess who just got promoted?” You gasp. You fight desperately for words. “Please.” you whimper, opening your legs, opening your whole self for him “Please.”

He looks into your eyes with wonder and hunger, like you're the most beautiful thing in the world. Like HE’S the lucky one. Then his face drops, hanging slack and lifeless. He stares past you, through you. “Chip failure.” he says flatly. What? “Your Full Immersion chip has encountered a fatal error and will shut down. Please contact an administrator.”

You struggle under his weight, tell him to stop it, this isn't funny, he's scaring you, but everything fades away into darkness and silence. Your eyes sting as you painfully open them to a bare lightbulb above you as your senses are assaulted with pain, stench and the taste of blood. Somewhere nearby, a hungry, neglected baby is screaming.

You try to sit up, but you're handcuffed to a broken bed, your wrists red raw and infected, the acrid stink of piss, sex and worse rising from the worn mattress. Beneath your top surgery scars, your stomach is a flabby, criss-crossed mess of stretchmarks and caesarian scars, your legs disproportionately thin and atrophied.

Your eyes focus on the naked, sweating bulk of an older man, balding and overweight, roughly mounting you. He mumbles to himself as he roughly thrusts into you. His body odour makes your throat burn. Your lips crack open as you hoarsely scream, your beard matted with dried vomit, blood and cum.

The man recoils as if stung, and scrambles off of you. “It looked at me!” he screeches as he scrambles and stumbles for the door  “You said it wouldn't look at me! You can't do this to me! I have trauma!”

You struggle to get off the bed, but you seem impossibly weak. Even your emaciated arms feel like they’re made of lead. A furious figure thunders into the room. Somehow it’s your husband, almost unrecognisable with a shaven head and covered in tattoos, his face twisted in contempt. You try to cry out to him to plead for help, to ask him what’s happening, where the children are and to get you out of this horrible place, but only a thin croak comes out. “Stupid cunt” he spits “All you had to do was lie there.” Before his fist hits your face and everything goes black, all you can think about is the baby, still screaming, and whether it's yours.