Art's Conduct: The Infrastructure of Contempt =1=

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                 "A man can't be too careful in the choice of his enemies."

                                                      - Oscar Wilde


Face flushed, Laura sucked in a gush of air and squeezed her eyes shut. The baby's leg kicked and left an invisible imprint on her side, but under all the heat, she could only wince in minimal pain, submerged in agony and bittersweet happiness.

Holding the area, the baby kicked once more and, this time, she let out a cry as a newfound bruise formed in the pits and diameter of her stomach. Shifting her hospital gown a bit so that her bulge was exposed, she peered down, and there it was, a light purplish hue against her flushed flesh; a black hole in the center of an opalescent sky.

Her head fell back on the sheets with a light thud and a tear slid down her cheek as one fell after the other like a miniature stream, weaving down the lapping waves of a riverbank, dripping down her skin -sticky as the sweetest honey.

This inexplicable torment was so incomprehensible, even for her chagrin thoughts, that torment itself could have been its own dire and contemptuous villian, ensnaring its own senses to vivacious ends and battering itself into misshapen finick.

The unification between her and Marv, and the heavenly bliss of it all was the reason behind her maritime compulsion. Of course, she'd surpassed the literal affliction on practically every bone on her body, but this hurt so much more, and she couldn't, for the life of her, figure out how fertile women, such as herself, coped so well in the depths of similar circumstances.

She watched, even read about them, to thoroughly understand the concept of pregnancy. She rummaged through any books she laid hands on - whether it'd be fictional or medicinal - and even went as far as to stalking pregnant women before she finally succumbed into Marv's touches. Because when diabolical fingers caressed her skin like the softest down, she could do nothing but fall mercilessly victim to his touches. Touches that were so seductful, and evermore, so sinful that left one impulsively lusting for more.

It was heaven, but actually experiencing the addiction that others believed to be feverishly delectible was another scale of matter altogether. Nothing, not even a lecture, could have prepared her for this.

The contractions escalated, and she clutched tightly on the sheets until her fingernails bit down past the cloth, but the dull pain on her palms could not easily compel the fight residing in her womb.

The doors burst open then, and one-by-one, blurred figures piled in together like cattle, and she looked on with avid intensity that if her eyes could will its way out of her sockets, it would have done so already. This wasn't like the movies when everything clipped into slow motion as the climax reached its peak - where arms flailed at a speed of a turtle before finally making its requited incision. No, it was far from that because this was reality and time would never fall into such dramatic state.

In a flash, a bleary form of a nurse marched up her side, though she couldn't distinguish what she was saying, so when the needle broke through her skin, she wasn't conscious enough to realize what had conquered her until her eyes flickered to a close, and slumber overtook her senses.


That wasn't what happened, but she wished it had. Anything was better than enduring childbirth in the mirth of full consciousness.

"Okay, Mrs. Visazche," Laura could barely hear the doctor, much less breathe. She was lucky she maintained her sanity up to this point. "I want you to take in deep breaths-"

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