Chapter 2 - The Sound of Hollow Plastic
The sound that followed Daniel’s strike was not the sickening crunch of bone, nor was it the heavy, muted thud of flesh.
It was a sharp, hollow *crack*, followed by the dull, metallic pop of industrial Velcro giving way.
For a heartbeat, the entire backyard was frozen in time. The photographer remained frozen with his lens pointing at the grass. My father had his fists balled, his chest heaving, ready to tackle Daniel to the earth. My mother’s hands were clamped over her mouth, her eyes wide with unadulterated horror.
Then Madison’s dress shifted.
The pristine pastel fabric did not hold the shape of an eight-month-pregnant belly. Instead, under the force of Daniel’s strike, the curvature buckled inward like a dented plastic fender. A heavy, flesh-toned silicone prosthetic slipped sideways, tearing free from the adhesive strapping across her ribs and dropping against her thighs beneath the silk lining.
The lawn fell dead silent. Even the wind seemed to halt.
Madison did not cry out in physical pain. Her scream had died in her throat, replaced by a strange, high-pitched gasp of pure terror. She clutched at her abdomen, not to protect an unborn child, but frantically attempting to shove the synthetic mound back into place.
“Look at her,” Daniel repeated. His voice wasn’t loud anymore. It was cold, trembling with a fury that had burned down to pure ash. “Everyone look at her.”
My mother took one unsteady step forward. “Madison? Sweetheart... what is that?”
“Get him away from me!” Madison shrieked, scrambling back into the lawn chair, her knees knocking together. The silicone form slipped entirely out from the hem of her maternity dress, landing with a heavy, rubbery thud on the manicured grass. It lay there between her designer sandals: a multi-layered medical-grade silicone bump, complete with painted veins and an artificial belly button.
My father stopped mid-stride. His hands slowly unclenched, hanging limp at his sides. “Madison?”
I couldn’t breathe. The air in my lungs felt like broken glass. For eight months, our entire universe had revolved around this pregnancy. I had driven Madison to late-night pharmacy runs for morning sickness remedies. My mother had spent her retirement savings furnishing a state-of-the-art nursery in her home. Daniel and I had emptied our personal savings account two weeks prior to wire twelve thousand dollars to an out-of-state clinic because Madison claimed she had developed high-risk complications requiring private fetal monitoring.
“Daniel,” I whispered, finding my voice through the numbness. “Where did you... how did you know?”
Daniel finally turned to look at me. His eyes were bloodshot, his shirt damp with sweat. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick manila folder, throwing it onto the center of the gift table. It knocked over a miniature wooden cradle, sending pastel confetti scattering across the lawn.
May you like
“Open it, Claire,” Daniel said quietly. “Open it and see what your sweet, fragile sister has been doing while you worked sixty-hour weeks to pay her medical bills.”
***
