"Do it," I urge the looming figure over me. My voice sounds hoarse from disuse. My vocal chords are new, afterall. New to me that is. My lips and tongue feel thick and stubborn, not wanting to move in the way I wish. I'll get better at it, I tell myself. They're probably still swollen from surgery.

The haze of narcotics washes over me as I struggle to relay my frantic desire to be finished. The ...

I don't remember much of my mother. She could have had brown fur. Or black. I don't recall how she looked. However, with tightly closed, mucous covered newborn eyes I smelt her. My nose would spring to life when she was near - scent crackling like electricity from her milk ladened nipples arcing towards my young nose. I would nose toward her, then, until I could feel the warmth just as strongly a...