She was spitting out worms.
She crouched down on her knees, white-haired, baby-faced. She spat out another black worm. “Go away, dream boy, go away,” she started singing. Her thin arms wrapped around herself, rocking to a deranged lullaby.
She started retching again. Again, she spat out one, then two worms onto the ground. Black as tar, silvery with slime. They slowly moved away from her.
That morning, she woke to the taste of bile and she felt sick, nauseous. She had gone down to the river and in her reflection, she opened her mouth. She saw the small wound at the inside of her mouth, gaping like a sore that would never heal.
From the mouth of the wound she saw three black worms writhing, waving. As if they did not want to leave the womb. One fell out and another appeared. She threw up: bile, last night’s dinner and the worm.
For the rest of the day, she coughed and retched and gave birth to the black worms. She would have gone mad but that was already a foregone conclusion. After all, she had lost her child and had gone out and killed a god. More than a god, an idea…. a concept bigger than the word it signified.
For her punishment, her child had replaced the one she had killed. For her reward, she started spitting out black worms.
Omnia mutantur, nihil interit. Everything changes but nothing is truly lost.
She started laughing… until she choked on another black worm and threw up empty air.
(First published Monday, September 15, 2008 at 2:08 P.M., turned into a movie by Khavn dela Cruz.)