The Revelation

Liz Breder

She split, from her sternum up her neck, along nose and between eyes, up to the top of her head. Meat and bone cleaved and from this mess, through the top of her skull, her children climbed.

When they had all wriggled out she sewed herself back up, but the edges met unevenly and the scar would remain. Her babies were bloodslick and mewling. She wiped each one clean and held them to her breast in turn.

A few tried to pry at the stitches in her scalp—desperate to go back inside. She broke their fingers to teach them a lesson.

When they had grown she told them, I thought you up and couldn’t keep you in my head anymore. Someday the same thing will happen to you. A thought will consume you until it has a weight, until it takes up too much space, and you will have to let it out.

They were dismayed. One child said, I will never let such a thing grow in me. I will send it down into my belly and devour it. Her mother took a knife and carved a line into the child’s stomach.

Said watch this scar. This is where they will rip you open.