But her words were lost in the face of his rage.

Behind him, the gas flame flickered on the stovetop. Cecily wasn’t much of a cook, but she’d managed to not burn the Hamburger Helper this time. It didn’t matter. He’d grabbed the pan and thrown it at the wall with all his might. Now, the ground beef and soft noodles stuck to the cheap wallpaper, its cheese sauce dripping onto the linoleum floor. He hadn’t yet told her what had offended him, but she was sure the six beers out of the twelve-pack he’d been working on had more to do with it than his disliking the food. In fact, she was sure he didn’t need the beer as a reason, either. He just liked to hit.

She flinched as his spit landed on her face, accompanied by the fresh stream of profanity spewing from his mouth. Her eyes locked on the new can of Easy Cheese and box of crackers, which sat unopened on the counter. She’d gotten them just for him. To make him happy.

The smack finally came. This time, it was open-handed. Stars filled her vision as she was knocked to the floor. Her eyes slowly opened. At first, she saw only the sea of beer cans scattered from the kitchen to the living room, where Phil now lay unconscious in his chair. Heaviness clung to her eyelids for another moment, her mind flipping through the nights he’d put her on the floor just like this one.

With a groan, she pulled herself to a sitting position. Her jaw and head ached.

“I’m leaving,” she said again.

But as soon as she stood up, she started picking up the mess. The barrel-sized trash can was nearly filled with the week’s empty bottles and cans. The smell of sour beer filled her nose. With the efficiency of sheer practice, she cleaned up the remains of the dinner, turned off the stove, and yanked the large black trash bag out of its container. Her shoulder sockets gave a little ache when the weight of it sagged in her grip. Catching a glance of herself, straining with the bag in the reflection of the chrome fridge, she nearly passed out again. She was gaunt. But her tummy wasn’t.

“I’m leaving,” she told the small protruding bump. But was she? She’d never kept her word in the 436 days she’d been with him. Yes, she had counted.

She hauled the bag outside to the complex dumpster, which overflowed with piled-up garbage. Harry, the crooked manager, only paid for the trash pickup once every other month. When she kicked a few boxes out of her way, a loud squeaking erupted. Fat gray and brown rats scattered about. She jumped out of their way but was too transfixed to run. Her thin arms struggled with the weight of the trash as she stared at the rodents.

With effort, Cecily finally swung the bag. It landed and fell to the side, sending more critters scampering in protest at the interruption of their nightly meals.

“And go where?” she asked, partially to herself and partially to the large rodent nipping at the sack she had just deposited. Her father had left; her mother had caught the end of too many fists from the men she’d serviced and was found dead in a trash heap a lot like the one Cecily stood in now. A rather large, patchy gray rat skittered over her flip-flopped foot. It felt heavy and warm.

“At least you have a happy life,” she said to the rat. Happy life… she’d never have that for her future. Then, as if she’d never considered it before, neither would her unborn child. The thought filled her with rage.

***

Phil lay on his side in the middle of the sheetless mattress, one arm shoved under his head acting as a pillow, and the other arm flopped over his piglike belly. Cecily stood there, a box from the dumpster in her arms. Every so often, the cardboard would jitter, then settle down. She set it aside, making sure the lid was secure. She walked to the bedside and listened to him snoring. Normally he’d still be passed out in his chair. This was fate dealing her the perfect hand.

The handcuff slid and locked into place. She’d managed to lift the arm from his stomach and bring his wrist up to meet the other, which she had already cuffed. Now, he lay, still sleeping, his hands over his head, secured to the old, thick wooden slat of their bed frame. A month ago, Phil had found the frame in some other neighborhood, left out for heavy hauling, and brought it home. He was strong—she hoped the wood was stronger.

Cecily decided there was no cutting the work pants off; she’d just have to pull them down the old-fashioned way. He didn’t wake, but he did shift his weight and roll over onto his back as his second leg came free of the heavy cargo pants. The smell of his greasy, sweaty body mixed with caked-up dick cheese along the creases of his thighs sent her hand flying up to cover her mouth and nose. As usual, he wore no underwear. The ceiling fan spun on its highest setting, and the cool air must have soothed him, as he chose that moment to part his legs.

His great red scrotum spilled out in a puddle of puckered skin. His prick wasn’t circumcised, so only the head poked out of its pouch. He was near fifty, and his once-blonde, wiry pubic hair had faded into gray. The skin of his upper thighs showed all the markers of jock rot—a term she’d heard her mother use to describe the afflictions of some of the men she had entertained. Cecily had it all over her legs and ass. Another way he’d marked her.

From inside of her housecoat pocket came the first can of Easy Cheese. Phil loved the stuff. She’d grabbed it off the counter and the other one from the cupboard. What if he woke up and caught her? Or worse, what if he didn’t? Shaking, she leaned over and let the faux cheese ease out of the tip onto his thighs. Its bright orange color evoked the mental image of a circus clown, and she stifled a laugh and froze, holding her breath as the Easy Cheese coiled on his skin. He didn’t move.

Two cans later, she could no longer see his disgusting groin, only swirls of the orangey-yellow imitation cheese. It had been easier to do than she’d first thought. Still, her body shook. Only she didn’t know if it was from excitement, fear, or the pain that still made her face throb. She turned and picked up the box from the dumpster.

Phil belched and passed gas. His snoring paused, and Cecily stood still, flooded in panic. A tear rolled down one cheek. She waited for his voice or his bellowing rage. Neither came, just a cough, then snoring again. Gathering her courage, she forced herself to turn and look. Nothing had changed, except his head had fallen to the side.

Setting the box on the bed, she unfolded the flaps. Her insides jittered; sweat collected on her brow. Carefully, she tilted the cardboard and felt the weight of the contents shift to one side. The contents slipped out, and she tossed the empty box aside, then took a few steps back. The pile of rats slipped and slid off each other amid a few scraps of remaining trash that had fallen out with them onto the bare mattress.

For a moment, she paused, knowing she could stop this. She could scoop the rats back into the box, clean up the cheese, and slip off the cuffs. He’d never know. Her foot twitched, and she nearly took a step, to move back toward the sleeping tyrant and undo what she’d begun. But then the biggest rat—there were six, maybe seven—broke away from the mischief and began to eat the cheese. Following suit, the remaining rats turned and sniffed, then began to nibble.

Her heartbeat filled her ears, and she stood waiting. Would they just eat the cheese, or would they…

Phil laughed. It was a surprised laugh. But it didn’t last long. At the first bite, he jerked. It hadn’t been a deep bite. But once the blood scent came, the rats grew frenzied.

Cecily backed up to the wall as the rats began to feast. Blood and flesh filled her vision. For a moment she felt frozen between the glee of freedom and the terror of what she’d done.

Phil screamed. Sluggishly, he tried to move his arms and close his legs, but was too drunk and disoriented. The rats were very determined. What if he was able to break free? That thought snapped her out of her paralyzed state. She ran to the closet. Inside were his work clothes, T-shirts and cargo pants, and a toolbox. Behind her, the rats squeaked in protest as his legs thrashed. Rummaging through the box, she located several small bundles of yellow rope.

She ran to the bed, unraveling the rope. Phil was fully awake now but still super drunk. Vomit had spilled down his chin. Scents of sour yeast and blood with a hint of Easy Cheese filled her nose.

“What the fuck…you fucking—AAAHHHHH!”

She was able to get the rope around one of his ankles and pull the leg. He kept screaming. She looked down as she held on. Rats swarmed into the curdled mess of his flesh. Blood squirted up from someplace, and the rat nearest the stream was painted red. The sounds of their cries, his harsh breaths, and her own as she struggled to keep his leg from pulling away, combined to create a soundtrack she’d never be able to unhear. Above his head, Phil’s arms frantically yanked at the wood frame, trying to get free.

In that moment, something red and roundish slipped past the wiggling bodies, landing on the mattress. Abruptly, Phil’s screams stopped. Cecily blinked. Had something come out of Phil’s body? She tried moving in for a better look, but jumped back when the smaller of the rats started to bore deeper into the mass of gore. Phil’s body began to convulse. The leg she held in place ceased pulling and began to jerk. She let go and backed up until she met the wall, unable to tear her eyes away from the gory scene. When the first rat submerged itself into his flesh, vomit burst out of her mouth. The taste of her stomach fluids filled her nose. It burned, and she bent down to get it all out. Between retches, she glanced up to bear witness to the rats feasting on Phil’s now-motionless body. Blood had spread so thick that it dripped onto the floor.

The fattest rat appeared at the edge of the bed. It was impossible to discern the color of its fur, as every part of it was drenched in fresh blood and what looked to be chunks from the man’s insides. The roundish red object she’d seen shoot out of Phil glistened at the edge of the mattress. The plump rat approached it, then decided to try and take a bite, and the object slipped, flying off the mattress and landing directly at Cecily’s feet. She felt her eyes grow wide.

Shit, is that a testicle?

She fell to the floor on all fours. Her arms shook. The close-up view of the testicle caused a fresh stream of vomit to surge up. She managed to turn her head, letting the vile-smelling fluid splash onto the floor beside her. The fat rat leapt off the bed and moved toward its prize., stopping a few inches from her. Its beady black eyes locked on her brown eyes. Her gorge started to rise again, but she managed to swallow it down, and made no moves.

In the distance, she heard a commotion. People in the hallway. Of course, she thought. They’d come for Phil’s screams, but never mine. Disgust rose in her, for all her cries that went unheard, the pleas for help that went unheeded. Overcome with palpable rage, she leveled her gaze on the rat.

“I hope you eat them all.”

One long string of saliva stretched from her mouth to the floor. The sounds of the other rats still feasting made her stomach twist. Pushing the sickness down once more, she steadied herself. Then slowly, with her index finger, she pushed the testicle toward the creature. The rat moved to it, sniffing. Her finger was still outstretched, a small dot of blood from the meat on the tip. With surprising speed, the rat darted out and bit her finger.

“Ouch, little fucker!” She pushed away and back onto her heels.

Automatically, the finger flew into her mouth. The rat sniffed again, then turned and took the prize into its mouth and began to eat. Cecily scooted back to the wall and watched the big rat jump back onto the bed and disappear into the dead man’s body. The voices in the hallway grew louder. The cops would have been called. She considered running. But where would she go?

Instead, she left the room, closing the door behind her. She sat on his chair, and waited.

***

“CMV, are you serious?” Dante looked back at the woman. Her belly was distended. Electrodes affixed to her bloated abdomen were attached to monitors showing readings all around the bed.

“Yeah, no shit. I mean I’ve heard it can do this, but it’s rare,” Dr. Greg said.

“So, she’s dead?” Dante looked at the doctor. He’d been in the LAPD most of his life, but this case had given him nightmares.

“She’s brain-dead. Apparently, she had no idea she was already suffering from HIV. The child, of course, will inherit the virus, but we think we were able to keep the cytomegalovirus from infecting the fetus.” Dr. Greg looked at the cop, curious.

“What she did was messed up, Doc. If you ask me, she’s lucky to not be getting out of that hospital bed. Still, she’s a living incubator. That seems like a fate worse than death.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I see beauty here. I mean, yes, it’s strange, but her body is helping bring a life into this world,” Dr. Greg said, a twinkle in his eyes.

Dante fought the urge to be sick. That woman had fed her boyfriend’s dick and balls to rats, and the animals had taken it even further. Granted, the man probably deserved what he got. Once the neighbors learned what happened, they were all-too-eager to tell him about the beatings he dealt to the young woman. He’d been the one infected with both CMV and HIV. The working women of skid row rarely got treated in time to stop the spread of things like that.

“Her father, once we located him, was a piece of work too. She didn’t have many options. This is just one fucked-up case I want to forget. You feel me, Doc?” Dante took in one more glance of the grotesque scene, a corpse housing an unborn child, and turned his back.

Dr. Greg led them out of the room.

“This entire wing of the hospital is dedicated to these types of cases. Some have families who will take the babies home after they’re born; others will probably end up in the system. Folks are too afraid of raising children born with diseases,” Dr. Greg said, his voice laced in sadness

Dante wanted to ask why the hell they’d keep it alive, then. But he knew why. If they didn’t, he’d be here to arrest the doc. The law, no matter how ignorant, was the law.

Both men walked down the corridor, saying nothing else. Dante knew it would be a long time before he could rid the image of what he’d seen that day from his mind. It struck him, then. The rats had eaten the father from the inside as he lay dead on a filthy mattress. Now, the mother, also dead, was feeding something that grew inside her.

The symmetry of the situation wasn’t lost on him. Guess Karma really was a bitch.

About the Author:
Chantell Renee loves the craft of writing. Words gave her the escape she needed as a reader until she wrote her first poem at age twelve. By high school she’d created her first story. She is an avid lover of all things dark, so it didn’t take long before the themes of her work turned to horror. In close to a decade of published work, you can find tales of societal concerns, possession, creatures, body horror, and many more sub-genres. She’s a painter and creates various art projects mostly oddity based. She also plays drums, bass and guitar. And most Tuesday nights she records an episode of the Sex and Horror Podcast. You can keep up with her at: TikTok @chantellrenee, Instagram CRenee_ and FB Chantell Renee/Limitlessinkauthor.