Spilt Milk | S W Muir

Lacy snuffed the cigarette she had been smoking as the final step in her breast feeding routine. First, she would stare into the faces of her six screaming children for five minutes while they danced or rolled at her feet, then pick one up and, balancing it on one knee, drag on a cig while the baby took to the tit. One at a time each would get its turn. Her doctor told her to quit smoking. She switched to Virginia Slims instead.

She absolutely had to have that cigarette every time she breast fed. Every time she looked at one of the screaming children who depended so much on her — ­her, Lacy, the town screw up, the first girl in middle school to get screwed, the only girl in high school to get pregnant — and thought of their father banging current high school girls while she was pregnant or nursing, she just had to have that smoke.

The screaming babies, the teething toddlers, the two kids old enough to have a preferred breast, the public stares, were just a part of the miserable whole that made up Lacy’s life. She’d given birth to their first child at sixteen and they hadn’t stopped popping out since.

Yes, Lacy was still nursing all six of her children. It was cheaper than using formulas or solid foods and support agencies like WIC and food stamps were too much of a hassle to set up. But the real reason she still breastfed was because she wanted to disappear.  She believed if she didn’t eat but continued to breastfeed she would dissolve into her kids. She needed to fade from memory. At first Lacy hoped that he might find her thin body attractive again; not just the rare occasions when there weren’t any high school girls to bone, when he was horny and drunk enough to ignore her weeping chest then six weeks later the test would read positive again. She no longer let that hope, or any other delusions, hold her. Her intent was fixed, but it surprised her how long it had been taking to fade and she had realized she was going to need some aid.

Today was the day.

Lacy snuffed out her cigarette after the last kid finished. A Winston, the real deal. The emaciated skeleton that was her body ached for relief, for release. She shooed the kids into the backyard, picked up the tumbler, and drank her cocktail — Liquid Plumber, bleach, ammonia, Windex. This was it. Lacy felt the sun within, shining through her paper skin. She lifted her arms, tingling as they melted to the carpet, and fell to her knees or whatever was left of them. She saw every color as the light passed through her, the reds and oranges most vivid. Then she fell backward and knew, in her last thoughts that were almost as empty as her body, she would never hit the floor. She 

would

be...

---

S W Muir holds a BA in English with an emphasis in writing, is a freelance grant writer for various non-profit organizations, and holds a teaching license in traditional Japanese martial arts.