With a mighty crack, a tree falling in a wood heard by her alone, our object begins to extend. At first it maintains its singular pronged form, breaking the womb like a knife through a deflated balloon. The exterior cauterizes tissue on its journey, but on contact with the stomach acid begins to leak, dark liquid spills onto the sheets. Our subject has passed out. Further branches flourish from our object, sprouting faster and faster. Some reach out of the body cavity into the quivering lakes of fluid, boiling it on contact, leaving only deep brown stains. The lungs burst without hesitation and a laconic hiss escapes. The pungent smell reaches through the ceiling, and the neighbour remarks that perhaps a drain has broken, surely nobody can cook so awfully! Perhaps the poor dear has faulty plumbing. What was her name, again, Frank? Terribly quiet. Lovely face, but not a natural beauty. Frank raises his eyebrows. They continue to watch television in silence.
Tendrils curl around bones, intricate designs map themselves out to replace our subject’s veins and arteries, the central branch is wide but the outermost have become delicate and refined. It continues to extend with a pulsing motion, enveloping, creating curves that never existed on her angular frame. In the cavity of her abdomen branches twist and turn around one another, piling up, asexually extending. Ova long dead are made darkly fertile. Her head alone is untouched, a halo of stained pale sheet forming a locus; a saintly glow. The remainder of her body has become debris, each inch infiltrated and assimilated by the rampant black limbs; shoots that refuse to bear leaves and flowers. The black colour becomes her own, as the surrounding oxygen decays her flesh through its uncomfortable proximity. Gradually, the growth slows. With seemingly a great sigh, the object rests. The seventh day.