Sex and Murder Magazine

By Jessica McHugh

I'd taken up smoking. I found it strange at first: the feeling of the reeking stick of slow death teetering between my fingers, then lips, and then fingers again. For some reason, I thought I'd feel like a starlet, like some monochrome movie star with a Lucky Strike between my lips, a cocktail in one hand and Howard Hughes in the other. But when I looked in the mirror to see my coolness reflected, all I saw was the smoke wreathed around my pallid face. After a few days, however, my hands became accustomed to the dance, although I couldn't seem to get used to the stench my hands acquired, especially on rainy days. But the benefits of the habit significantly outweighed the downfalls. It kept my hands busy; who knows what kind of razor-sharp avenues my fingers might explore if not distracted? After all, I had no fear of death. Why should I care? I had lost the ability to bear life, and what good is being afraid of death when you're already dead inside? Why should I give a damn if my teeth or fingernails or skin turned yellow; why should I care if my kiss tasted like the table of an all-night diner? I'd already lost love, life, and hope. What else was left for me to lose?

Besides, I so loved sitting outside and admiring the scenery as my smoke billowed around it. How strange it is that on my balcony with the soft breeze rolling by and the dry smoke rushing in, I felt more alive than I had in months. Ever since they'd ripped my insides out and discarded what once had flourished, I'd lost all will to feel and decided it was safer to be numb. With no sensation within, there was no sensation that could possibly be stripped from me. But sometimes, I would doze off in my deck chair and my cigarette would burn down, singe my fingers and jar me awake. I'd grind my teeth and curse the pain; mostly because the pain reminded me that I was not yet dead.

I wanted to be. I wanted not to think, not to remember, not to wonder how perfect she would've felt in my arms or ask the questions that could never be answered. How small and weak would her fingers have felt as they wrapped around mine. Would her laughter have lilted just like mine? When I used to laugh, that is. I despised those thoughts so much that sometimes I imagined burying a burning cigarette in my ear and extinguishing it in the soft, wet wrinkles of my brain. How many butts would it take before my brain looked like a Blooming Onion? That ridiculous thought was all that seemed to amuse me as of late; that and the apartment building on the other side of the parking lot.

No matter the month or time of day, the window appeared illuminated by multi-colored lights as if somewhere in that room, a Christmas tree stood constantly alight. I never saw a tree; that is certain, but with the lights so Christmassy in color and arrangement, what else could it be but a decorated tree? And why did they remain lit even in daytime? Certainly, the electric bill was atrocious. The sight boggled and entranced me, and I often took to the balcony to watch the colors dance and perhaps even catch a glimpse of whoever lived there. Just as I’d not actually seen a tree, I’d also never seen life or evidence of it within the apartment. Because of my increasingly frequent visits outside, I had to start buying more cigarettes to help me pass the time or more appropriately, kill the time. Damn, that could be a slogan for pro and anti-smoking campaigns: “Smoking kills time.”

It’s not like I had anything better to do but smoke. I no longer had a husband; he hadn’t stayed long after the operation. What good is an empty woman, after all? I couldn’t give him the little Prince he’d wanted ever since he’d realized that children were important. I didn’t have nor need a job; I had plenty of money saved up since I’d stopped enjoying life. My usual purchases consisted of cartons of cigarettes, the occasional bottle of wine, and food delivery. And though more often than not, I opted for food from a greasy fast food restaurant, I continued to lose weight. Depression can be a great diet plan.

But strangely enough, when I discovered the ominous lights in that window across the lot, my empty life became suddenly filled. When I realized that, however, I defiantly crossed my arms over my chest with a “humph” and swore up and down that although there had been a new development in my life, there would be nothing developing in me. I was still hopelessly disheartened and content to remain so. I suppose it’s an odd thing to be happy with unhappiness, but after several months of sorrow, if felt comfortable and safe. No one breaks the hearts of the broken-hearted, and the dead cannot be killed.

So I smoked and I watched, although I wasn’t really certain of what I was watching for; the lights did little else but twinkle. After a few weeks of watching, however, I suddenly became aware that my watching had turned into waiting. But then, I had to wonder again: what was it that I waiting for? Waiting indicates some sort of hope, and hope was the last thing I wanted gnawing upon my heart. When I crushed my cigarette into the ashtray, I imagined that the hope was crushed along with it.

As difficult as it was, I turned away from the window, sat on the couch, and stared at the blank TV screen. There wasn't any point in switching it on; every show was either puerile or lovey-dovey, and they sickened me. I tried to invent my own show and display it on the screen in my mind, but all I could imagine were lights: reds and greens, blues and yellows; each string of them was more brilliant than the previous. But then, the cords closed in on me. They twisted around my wrists and across my chest and wound tighter and tighter around my neck until my gasps for air became futile. My own mortality didn't come to mind as I was being strangled; I thought only of hers. Was this what she felt when she died? Perhaps, but not exactly. After all, she'd never tasted oxygen. She'd never taken a breath. When she was dying, she lost no breath; only life. But it was not pretty lights that took it from her. It was me: Mother.

I had fallen asleep. My breath was deep and steady and the only thing wound around me was a blanket. I didn’t need to open my eyes to know it had been a dream or to realize that something in my apartment wasn’t as it ought, The living room should've been darker; the shades were drawn so that not even the moon could've shone through, and it didn't. No, the light shining through was colored and focused so that each color was peppered across my walls, as if a disco ball had once graced the room and left its sprinkled memory behind. But I knew the true origin of the colors and with uncontrollable hunger, I tore the shades open and pressed myself against door and clawed at the glass like an animal that was starving for twinkle lights. From inside, I felt my body ablaze, but when my fingers grazed my cheek, it was as cold as ice, and I could see by my reflection that it had lost all color, save for those donated by the lights.

I flung open the door and stepped out onto the balcony as if in a dream, but I knew, full well, that it wasn’t. The dream had ended; I knew because the feeling had returned, and in dreams, I felt nothing. When I stepped outside, I felt, and it was as frightening as ever. It was as frightening a feeling as her being pulled out, as frightening as seeing her lifeless in the doctor's hands. Looking like that, she had reminded me of when I used to go fishing. I'd always put up such a struggle, tugging and whipping my rod, that by the time I'd reeled in my catch, the fish was usually dead, torn and bloodied from lip to fin.

I'd never go fishing again

But there was nothing lifeless about the lights. They were very active and brighter than I'd ever seen them. They bathed me and only me, and as I grew more and more entranced by their flickering dance, I began to hear a strange noise. At first, I thought it was some kind of music, but it was too abrasive. It sounded more like a whistle or a squeal. Then, slowly, it was accompanied by the sound of rushing wind, but it wasn't until I looked up that I recognized it as the sound of something plummeting down from the dark sky. It was headed right for me, but I didn’t budge. I was awed by it and the wonder of what it would feel like to be crushed by something traveling at that speed. Would it drive me through the concrete porch or just bash me to bits? Would I feel it hit me or would my heart give out to shock seconds before the collision?

The questions exhilarated me, but the biggest question of all was, what the hell was that thing? It wasn’t very important, but it would’ve been nice to know exactly what was about to kill me. As it fell faster and faster, I could tell that it was of metallic composition and that pieces of it were peeling away as it plunged down to earth. It squealed louder as it fell, but it also grew smaller and less menacing, and I dropped my arms in exasperation when I realized that the object was not going to hit me after all. For a split second, I thought that maybe it would at least hit the balcony stilts and send me crashing to my death, but that possibility was quickly dashed when the plummeting object changed course. When it crashed to the parking lot, pieces of debris were kicked up and smoke billowed into thick clouds that obstructed the object.

I leaned over the railing and shakily smoked my cigarette, expecting a slew of dimwitted hillbilly neighbors to come running out to get a closer look at the silver thing that had fallen from heaven. I waited for the clamor and screams in gleeful, but no one came. They were too busy watching American Idol, perhaps. By the time I made my way down to the parking lot, the smoke had cleared, and the multi-hued lights from the window shone down upon me as well as the great metal beast lying defeated on the asphalt. But it was in much better shape than I expected after such an impact. The front end was a bit crumpled, but it was still at least seven feet long and nearly five feet wide and there were stumps on the sides of the object where wings might have been attached. I could make out the outline of a door but no handle or latch, and when I knelt next to the wreckage to inspect it, I heard a soft scuffling sound.

Goddamn, I needed a smoke.

I reached out to the door cautiously, afraid of the metal’s temperature, and when I finally touched it, I recoiled not from heat but from the extreme cold. The scuffling grew louder. When I gave the door a girly kick, I first heard the hollow reply of the innards, but I also heard a whimper, a small, sad moan that accompanied the sound of scratching from the other side of the door.

Something was inside that metal shell, something scared and something too weak to open the door by itself. I stepped back a few paces, took a deep breath, and I shot forward with my right foot primed to punt. With all of my strength, I kicked the side of the shell and the door popped ajar. A satisfied grin broke across my face, but as soon as the door swung completely open, the smile quickly disappeared upon seeing the flaccid, reeking body of a dead woman tumble out onto the pavement. I screamed so loud that the whole complex could here, but still, no one came to investigate. Her face was stretched yet sunken and the grey skin was soggy, and appeared to be only loosely attached the muscle beneath. The fingertips were only bone and the bone was chipped and split, but most frightening of all was when the corpse slid out farther onto the asphalt, I saw the entirety of the woman's deteriorated body and the large holes punched in her stomach. There were jagged slashes and unnatural fissures farther south, but I didn't care to inspect that any more closely. It hit too close to home. The stench was so overpowering that tears began to well in my eyes.

It was too much. I needed a cigarette. A cigarette and police. But what would I say to the police? I'd ramble on nonsensically about a spaceship and a dead, naked lady with her nether region torn apart. They'd think I was insane. Even I was starting to think I was insane, but just as I started to walk away, I heard the whimpers again. The small cooing sound caused me to look back, but I saw only death and deterioration and prayed silently that the corpse regained its power of speech, no matter how rudimentary. But it hadn’t been the dead throat that had cooed. The soft sounds and movement had come from inside the metal shell. Yes, I was sure of it; something was still inside. And though the sight and smell of rot made my stomach lurch as I moved closer to the ship, I knelt beside it and plunged my hand into the opening. At first, I felt nothing but dry air and the cold contours of the ship's interior, but when I delved deeper, something soft and warm squeezed my index finger. I pulled back slowly and towed the soft, warm something with me. The moonlight revealed its face: a cherubic rosy visage that grinned and giggled in a delightfully infantile way.

“Buh,” the baby girl commented curiously and pointed a chubby finger at me.

I lifted her out of the ship and held her tighter yet gentler than anything I'd held previously and she squealed in glee and clapped her hands fervently. For a moment that felt like an eternity of moments, I was lost in her. Never mind the fact that I'd pulled her out of a metal vessel that had plummeted from the sky, a vessel out of which a rotted, ravaged corpse had tumbled only minutes before. Never mind those lights that kept flashing brighter and brighter from the window and that no one in the complex but me seemed the slightest bit interested. And never mind the fact that although the baby’s mouth was open and unmoving in an endearing toothless grin, I could hear her childish attempt at speech in my mind. I hugged her to my chest and pulled my jacket closed around us, but as I walked toward my apartment, she began to whine and reached over my shoulder, opening and closing her tiny fist.

“Na na bah na. Sasa,” she whimpered, but following the nonsense, I heard deep within my mind, “The ship, the ship. Hide the ship, Mommy.”

Mommy. Something in my stomach turned to stone and shot up through my body, and when it smashed into my heart, it knocked down each icicle that hung from it.

“I'll take care of it,” I assured her in a sappy voice and swayed her back and forth as I ascended the stairs and entered my apartment.

The interior had been altered, but it hardly fazed me. The memory of disco ball lights had intensified and become magnified. It was no longer just a spattering of color; color was splashed across my walls. So very lovely, I thought, but I was looking at her when I thought it. Of the apartment, I simply shrugged my shoulders; it was about time for a change in décor anyway. I laid the baby down on the bed and wrapped a blanket snugly around her. I'd read somewhere that babies enjoyed the feeling of constriction, that it reminded them of the comforts of the womb. But this kid seemed to hate it.

“Na! Na! The ship! The ship!” she cried to my mind as she thrashed in an attempt to free herself from the blanket.

“I hear you, I hear you. What a little brat,” I said affectionately.

“What a little brat,” she said aloud, and I flinched in surprise.

I found her sudden speech far more impressive than the telepathy skill. She was a baby no more than two months out of the womb, and she was able to speak phrases on one hearing.

“Can you say 'Mommy'?”

“Mommy,” she cooed, but her voice resounded cleared in my head when she bellowed, “The ship! The ship!”

“Fine,” I sighed. “Stay put.”

“Stay put,” she said and giggled as she continued to squirm under the blanket.

The vessel and the dead woman had remained untouched, but I had no idea where I was supposed to store them. I had a storage shed in the parking lot if I moved the ship into there, where the hell were my skis supposed to go?

It had started to rain, so I couldn't dawdle. I had to get the ship under cover before it rusted or warped, or for all I knew, melted. Not to mention the fact that I'd left an infant alone, bound in a blanket and thrashing around on the bed.

I'm such a good Mommy.

I kicked the soggy corpse aside and began the difficult task of pushing the ship to my shed. I cringed at each sparking squeal of the metal against the pavement, but finally, after ten minutes of wrestling with the ship, I was able to force it inside, even with the skis still in place. The fit was snug but acceptable, and I tromped reluctantly back to the lady who was giving the parking lot a thick, sickly perfume.

As I reached for her arm, I felt a stream of bile burn up the back of my throat, and even though I was able to swallow it, as soon as my fingers wrapped around that wrinkled, sopping wrist, it jumped back up and erupted out of my mouth. But I couldn’t hold onto her for long. As quickly as one could peel the skin off of a fried chicken drumstick, the woman’s skin sloughed off into my hand. I shrieked as I tried to shake it off, but the soggy, gray flesh clung to my fingers by strings of sinewy mucus. There hadn’t been much in the way of hair on her head when she’d tumbled out of the ship, but what she’d had was now in a sloppy pile underneath her head.

It appeared as if the rain was boring holes in her sallow face, and when I thought of how ridiculous my notion was of the ship melting in the rain, I saw there, before my eyes, the woman’s body breaking up, sloughing away, and falling to gray puddles of melted flesh; even her teeth were being dissolved by the downpour. It was the most disgusting yet most intriguing sight I’d ever beheld. I probably could’ve watched it until the puddles of rain because indistinguishable from the puddles of person, but the sudden screams of a baby took hold of my body and pulled me upstairs.

She was still on the bed, but as soon as I saw her, I knew that something was wrong. She didn’t remind me of fishing, thank God; she wasn’t limp or pale. In fact, she was wriggling even more furiously than before. But her face was deep purple, and the blanket was no longer snuggling her; it was strangling her. I ripped it off of her and her rosy glow returned, but before the return of color, I noticed her size. She had doubled at least, and she appeared more like a two year old child than the infant she’d been when I’d left her.

“Mommy,” she wheezed.

“I’m here,” I said and scooped her up in my arms. “I’m here, baby.”

“The ship?”

“It’s taken care of. Everything’s going to be alright.”

“Everything’s going to be alright,” she repeated happily and then frowned. “No more blankets?”

“No more blankets,” I assured her and sprinkled her face with kisses.

*****

I’d given up smoking; I had to. I had a child to think of. I had something to live for. And although I’d not brought her into the world, I had every intention of seeing her through it. I called her Mira, my little Miracle. That’s what she was after all; not just because she talked with astounding clarity and vocabulary in less than a month after her arrival or how her words were also understood without her even saying a word aloud. It wasn’t even because that in that month, she grew to a stunning young girl of twelve with ice blue eyes and hair so blond, it was nearly white.

No, Mira was a miracle simply because she was there, there in my arms, there saying “I love you, mommy. I love you.” I was not so deluded by my overwhelming joy to negate the reality of the situation, however. I knew what she was, or at least, I could guess. But no matter where she came from, she was mine now, and I cherished her endlessly. And even though the strings of lights that twinkled from the ominous window across the street grew bolder, I saw only her. For the first time since the day in the hospital when I’d lost everything, I was content with life and eager to go on living it. Mira was the perfect child: sweet, adoring, and thirsty for knowledge.

When I explained the concept of school to her, she immediately wanted to go, but due to her accelerated growth and maturation, I had to deny her the privilege. But I was able to dig up my library card for her, and every morning, she would skip off to the library and return with a tall stack of books that she would breeze through in mere hours. Fortunately, every librarian was ancient, practically blind, and dotty to boot, so Mira’s rapidly changing body and face didn’t raise anyone’s suspicions. But I, loving mother that I was, began to grow suspicious myself when I noticed how frequently she stared across the parking lot toward the window with those Christmas lights dancing in her eyes.

She had not yet been with me for six months, but she was eighteen years old in appearance, as firm and slender as I had been at that age with her fair blond hair pulled back into a high ponytail that possessed a classic bounce when she walked. I was very familiar with that bounce. When I was her age, I’d use my bounce to steal men’s gazes. The blond tail would jump and swish with every lively step, and when men saw that action, they’d wonder what else might be bouncing and their eyes would inevitably drift down.

To look at Mira was to gaze upon my past. She had so many of the attributes I’d possessed when I was younger and hope seemed a lovely thing. But I also saw the future in her pale, sapphire eyes, as well as the hope I’d long forgotten. I decided while looking at her that a hopeful life would be a pleasant future indeed. That’s why I became so unnerved by her increasing intrigue with the building across the way. No, it wasn’t intrigue. It was more like longing. She stared out at the lights with sad longing in every expression and gesture as she flexed her fingers against the window and squirmed slightly as if impatient. I'd had that look before. I’d had it when I first saw Kevin, the man I’d once loved. I’d had it when I first found out that we were pregnant. It was an ache that accompanied the look, an irresistible ache to hold something that you know could potentially destroy you. Mira tried to hide it, but she couldn’t have hidden it from me. I knew that feeling so intimately, although I'd long since relinquished it to the gods of painful circumstance. What I didn’t realize, however, is that while I analyzed her aching expression, I wore my own: the very same one.

Finally, I could bear her fixation no longer. I put my hand upon her shoulder and she jumped in surprise as she was torn away from the longing trance brought on by the lights.

"What is it, Mira?" I asked when I felt her body tense beneath my hand. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she sighed. "I'm just thinking."

"Thinking about what?"

"Leaving," she whispered.

"What?" I exclaimed. "Leaving? Why? I don't understand. Haven’t I been good enough to you?"

"It’s not about you, Mom. I love you and I love being here with you, but I can't stay. I should've left weeks ago, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I love being here."

"Then stay; stay forever. You don't have to go," I protested.

"Yes, I do. I've come of age, and it's time for me to surrender my life for the life of another," she said sadly.

"Mira, I don't understand."

"My people are in crisis; there are so few of us left. I need to bear a child. But," she began and her eyes drifted to the floor, "I'm so afraid. Our bodies are so fragile and I know that bearing a child could end me. It’s happened before. I know it; I remember it although I’ve never seen it. The history of my people is ingrained in me. I am like the Monarch Butterfly, and I have been genetically programmed to go where I’m told.”

"No," I cried and wrapped my arms around her. "I won't allow it."

"There's little to be done, I'm afraid."

"But where will you go?"

She gestured with her head: a tiny nod or perhaps, a subtle bow to the apartment with the illuminated window.

"There? But why?"

"It is familiar," she replied.

"It's familiar for me too, but that doesn’t mean I’m inspired to run off and get knocked up. Not that I could get knocked up," I grumbled. "I assure you, Mira, they're just Christmas lights."

Mira cocked her head to the side and pouted, but then with sparked realization, she said, "Ah, yes, Christmas. The holiday with Santa Claus and presents, yes?"

"And twinkle lights," I added. "That’s all they are. Some idiots just leave them up year round."

"Really?"

"Really. There's nothing to get worked up about. It’s just a Christmas tree, probably one of those plastic ones with the lights built in," I explained.

"I've never seen one of those," she said. "I’ve never seen any kind of Christmas tree. So if I've never seen it, how can it be so familiar?" she asked with her large, innocent eyes gleaming.

"I don't know," I sighed.

"I can't stay, Mom. I don't want to go, but I just can't stay. I don't want to disappoint my people, but I don't want to die either."

"Why do you think you’d die?"

"It's a feeling I have," she replied and then threw herself against me in a fit of tears. "I don’t want to die!" she screamed. “I don't even want a baby. I just want to stay here. I want to keep learning; I want to keep living!"

"If only I could carry the burden for you, my darling," I said as I stroked her cheek. “I wish I could.”

She looked up at me and wiped her tears away with the back of her hand.

"You would do that?"

"Of course I would, if I could. But I can’t have children, Mira. I can't even get pregnant. That's why I'm so thankful for you. You're my little miracle."

"But what if you could?"

"Mira, it’s impossible. You know what hysterectomy is, don’t you?"

"How many impossible things have you seen take place over these past few months, Mom? If you could get pregnant, would you help me?"

"Of course. I love you, Mira. But whether I can have children or not, you'll always be my baby," I replied and kissed her forehead.

"We should go there," she said and touched the window glass as she gazed out at the lights. "That's where we need to go."

"Mira, it’s just an apartment."

"No, its not,” she said resolutely. “Mom, I know that this seems crazy, but there's something over there, something familiar, something for me; or I suppose, for you if you want it."

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Are you?" she countered with her concern apparent.

"Mira, if this is what you want, then this is what I want for you."
"And I want it for you too, Mom: to conceive and give birth at long last."

I shook my head doubtfully, but then again, I had been feeling hopeful of late. No matter how preposterous the notion of a woman with no uterus trying to get pregnant was, Mira seemed to believe it so sincerely that I couldn’t help but feel definite hope.

"When should we go?"

"Now," she replied with the excitement written all over her face.

I looked out into the flashing lights and felt a warm wave of faith crash over me. Yes, I had faith as well as hope. It had been so very long. And as ridiculous as it seemed, I believed that it was going to work. I counted up and over, window by window. The Christmas tree window belonged to the third apartment on the left on the third floor. That was simple and clear enough. Mira grabbed my hand, pulled me down the stairs, across the parking lot, and up the stairs of the building with the ominous lights emanating more boldly than ever. But when we scaled the second staircase and set foot on the third floor, we discovered that there was no third apartment on the left or on the right.

"That’s strange. I guess I miscounted," I said.

"No, you counted correctly," Mira replied as she stood in front of the second apartment on the left and then suddenly moved to the four foot area of brick wall beside it.

Cautiously, she laid her hand upon the wall, and a smile that illuminated her entire body crossed her face.

"It's here," she whispered happily.

"Mira, that’s impossible. Even if there was a door there at one time, the apartment would've been miniscule."

"Nevertheless," she replied, and with her smiling eyes fixed on me, she leaned forward and her hand disappeared into the brick.

"Mira!" I gasped.

"It's alright, Mom; I'm fine," she giggled. "Try it. It tickles."

I surrendered to curiosity and joined her side, and with only slight reservation, I thrust my hand into the wall. I immediately felt the tickle Mira had mentioned. It was a warm tingling sensation in the tips of my fingers, but after a few moments, it moved to my belly and down to my toes. It wasn't like goose bumps or "pins and needles"; this tingle was a completely delicious feeling, and if submerging my hand in whatever lay on the other side of the wall caused such pleasure, I could imagine what it would feel like to have the more sensitive parts of my body in there as well. She only had to tug on my arm once to break my tingly trance, and I willingly followed her into uncertainty.

Passing through the brick felt like passing through a wall of warm water. The air was thick and washed over my face as I pushed through the gentle tide. After penetration, my eyes saw only a dark void, and even though I felt floor underfoot, there was no discernable floor to be walked upon. But I started to see tiny flecks of light forming in distance: red and green pinpoints of radiance that increased in strength and number as Mira and I walked on through the speckled darkness. So many small lights surrounded us, so many colors to behold hanging on nothing but their own brilliance.

"My God," I said in wonder. “What is this place?"

"I don't know, but it makes me feel safe."

"As it should," a gentle voice said from behind us, and when I turned, I saw a tall, slender woman with fair skin and long hair the fiery color of sunset.

I pulled Mira close to me in a truly maternal fashion, but it was clear that she hardly noticed.

"Who are you?" I demanded.

"The giver of life," she replied. "And the taker of fear."

She gracefully approached Mira and curled her finger under the girl's chin.

"So very pretty," she remarked. "Do you have fears that need stripped away?"

"No," she replied confidently. "I have nothing to fear because nothing will be done to me today. Not today or any day."

"You cannot refuse," the red-haired woman said. "Our people are waning, and we need more children."

“And what if I die? I know that’s a possibility.”

“Then you die. The sacrifice will be worth it if you child you bear produces more.”

“But I don’t want to die,” she whimpered. “I don’t want any of this.”

"I will bear the child. If you need another so badly, I will bear it,” I declared and then lowered my head. “There’s just one problem."

"There's more than one," the woman scoffed. "You are human. No, I'm afraid I cannot allow it."

"Please, she's just a child herself. Don’t force her into this," I begged. "Let me take her place; I want to."

"Why?"

"Because I was at the end of my rope. A few more months of misery, and I would have literally been at the end of a rope. But then, a miracle happened. She came to me, and she called me 'Mommy'. I thought I'd never get the chance to experience the joy that she's given me over these past few months. And if you can give me the opportunity to feel it again, if I could bear this child you need, I’d be so grateful."

The woman studied me with her eyes squinted and her fingers drumming her cheeks until she finally shrugged her shoulders and said, "I suppose an exception can be made."

"But like I said before, there is a problem," I said.

"I know what you're worried about, and let me assure you that it’s not a problem."

"How could it not be? A womb is fairly essential for pregnancy."

"Not for us. You’ll be contributing nothing to the child's growth.”

"And its nourishment?"

"Oh, yes, of course you'll help nourish it, but only after it’s born," she replied. “You are merely a vessel.”

"That's all?"

"And a mother," Mira added as she squeezed my hand. "The greatest mother one could ask for."

"How does it work?" I asked in giddy anticipation.

The woman gently took my hand and led me further into the inky forest of twinkling lights until we reached a small but deep pool that was filled with some sort of pink jelly-type substance.

"Remove your clothes."

"What? Why?"

“You seem stunned by my request. I assumed human impregnation started with similar routine.”

“Not necessarily,” I replied with my mind dancing through the memories of hiked skirts and the urgent half-removal of pants.

"You must be submerged in the pool," she answered matter-of-factly.

"What is that stuff?”

"Our genetic code and your future child."

"So, when I get out, I'll be---"

"Pregnant? Yes."

"I can’t believe it. Thank you. Thank you so much," I replied joyfully.

For a moment, however, my mind returned to that empty woman, chain-smoking and pondering sweet death. And all the while as she stared at the world of light, this light, she was unaware that her future, a better future, lay within it. Naked in the dark, I watched the twinkle lights paint my skin and I felt more beautiful than I had in years. The colors washed away the scars of circumstance and rotten luck, and a new hope paved the road to a new world, born of me.

"But before you step in, perhaps you should say goodbye to your daughter."

"Goodbye?"

"Just for a while. When you emerge from the pool, you will be pregnant, but you'll also be far away from here."

"Where?"

"The ship, of course."

"My ship?" Mira asked and red-haired woman nodded.

"Our babies cannot cope with the atmosphere and pressure of this planet until they are at least a few days old," she explained. "Luckily, the gestation only takes about a month, and you’ll be back on Earth before you know it."

"And until then? How will I eat? How will I breathe?"

"If you don't feel up to this, your daughter can still step up."

"No, I want this. I'm just a bit apprehensive."

“You don’t have to worry about a thing, my dear. You’ll be well taken care of.”

Mira crashed into my arms and kissed my cheeks as she said, "Thank you, thank you, Mommy. I love you."

"I'll see you when I get back," I said.

"I’m going to miss you so much. I love you," she replied.

With my heart thrashing madly against my chest, I dipped my foot into the pink jelly. It was warm and viscous and immersion caused the same tingle in my body as I’d felt when I’d penetrated the brick wall. I took it step by step. I stood first, then sat, and then, very slowly, I leaned back until the goo closed in over my body. All that was left was submerging my face, and although it terrified me, with a deep breath, I dipped my head back and watched as the jelly slid over my eyes and everything turned pink. For several minutes, I felt like I was in limbo, suspended in air with nothing but blank eternity to house me. The only sensation I felt was a small pop within my belly and the fizzy feeling that followed. Was that it? Was I the first human woman to actually feel the moment of conception?

It turned out that I wasn’t the first at all. But that truth came far too late.

After a few minutes, I began to hear the sound of faraway chatter that pierced the void and echoed coldly all around me. One voice was more recognizable than the other because it belonged to Mira, my little miracle, and it eased me, but my comfort quickly faded as the conversation between her and the red-haired woman continued.

"I never thought I looked like her," Mira said.

"You were the spitting image of her; you couldn't have been anything but. You know that our physicality mimics the human we're around most often. That’s what makes our trick work so well.”

"She can't hear us, can she?"

"I don't think so. But it wouldn't matter if she could. In addition to the genetic code, the gel has a paralyzing agent. Even when she wakes up, she'll hardly be able to move," she answered. "Grab her legs, will you? Let's get her to the ship."

"What’s going to happen to her up there?" Mira asked.

“You’re not concerned, are you?”

“My only concern is that she’s going to botch it somehow. I’m afraid that the baby’s life will be compromised by her human infertility.”

“Don’t worry about a thing. We’ve been doing this for longer than you can imagine. She’ll give us exactly what we want. Those kinds of woman always do. They’re enamored of sacrifice because they think there’s nothing they can lose,” she replied. “Are you sure it doesn’t upset you?”

“Absolutely. There wasn’t a moment that I spent in her presence that I wasn’t longing for my true family. She’s nothing to me. My only concern is for the child,” Mira replied.

"It will all go as planned. She will give birth, and all the while, the ship will be on route to the next desperate woman. The child will use her body for sustenance, just as every other as done, just as you did to the human who birthed you."

Blistering anger and heartbreak overcame all of my senses, and when I thought back to what the red haired woman had said about my role in the child’s life, I finally understood.

"You'll help nourish it, but only after it’s born."

I wanted to tear them both apart to fleshy ribbons just as the child inside of me would surely be doing in a month's time to my own belly, but I couldn't move a muscle against them. I was still asleep, still in the void, and when I finally awoke to tangible world, I couldn’t touch, but at least I could see it. I was within the ship and the ship was in orbit, and my belly had already swollen to twice its original size.

How long had I been asleep? Probably as long as I’d been a fool. I could feel the flutter of my baby's fervent kicks and wondered how long it would be before they turned into violent thrashes of escape. The interior of the ship looked the way I would’ve imagined; it was like any highly technological vessel one would’ve seen in a movie except for one poignant difference. Tiny lights, similar to those one would find on a Christmas tree, adorned every panel, border, and instrument. I should've been awestruck by the similarity; I should’ve been stunned by my stupidity. But all I could feel was rage.

God, how I needed a cigarette. I imagined that pack after pack would murder the beast growing in my belly, yet perhaps, spare my life. As ludicrous as it sounded, I had desperate hope for it. Unfortunately, even if I'd had cigarettes, I wouldn’t have been able to smoke them. The red-haired woman had spoken true: I could barely move. The most I could do was lift my right arm slightly and hinge my wrist. But that tiny bit of movement proved beneficial when I found a sort of writing implement. It took me days to be able to grip it, but once I did, I never let it go. I began to write on the walls of the ship as legibly as possible, and in time, I filled wall after wall with a story, a story that could be used as a warning for the unfortunate woman who would inevitably discover my vessel.

The true pain began this morning, and now it’s almost more than I can bear. The abomination is tearing my stomach apart. It’s torn through most of me already, and I know its fingernail will break through before the day is through. It’s so strange to be here at last at the brink, that place I imagined myself so many times before when I was submerged in sorrow. Strange; I thought I’d feel relief. Perhaps, had I done it then before all of this befell me, I would have felt relief. But now, even with the disease of life ripping into and out of me, I still feel the lingering touch of hope. So, so strange. I’m worse off than I was at the beginning with death on the horizon and insides on the out, and here I am, hoping. I hope I pass out soon. I hope I die soon after that. I hope I never see this baby. Somehow, through it all, I’m still hoping.