Exhausted from the effort, her neck slumped beneath the weight of her round and heavy head.
From warm breast to manufactured surface, it landed on the changing table-- a compressed-sounding thud signaling death.
In the tenth of a second it took the infant’s skull to fall, her pale-pink, spit-covered lips hardened into the permanent, crimson-stained mouth of a vintage doll. Downy, plump cheeks solidified in antique stiffness, coated in shiny lacquer.
In the mirror, my areolas were the blue of vibrancy and vim. But the nipples from which the baby had botched her attempt to drain life were still brown.
