she kills for thrills

I’d just given birth to triplets, two girls and boy – but soon as they were born, a white masked, unknown somebody took them away to a glass room in the far corner of my vision. Exhausted and still sky-high on the pethidine, my reality was blurred, not unlike the sensation of swimming underwater with scratched goggles. “Bring them back, they need feeding. Bring them back they need feeding… bring them back…”said the drum and bass voice in my head on a rhythmic loop. The girls were vernix waxy with waa-waa Siamese cries and I nuzzled them instinctively into my heavy, milky breasts. But where was the third – the boy? They brought him back to me as I fed but his body was lifeless…

Bang! Bang! Bang! Urgent, insistent, determined knocking in the distance. It kick-started my reality. “Noooo! Don’t answer it, I shouted – for fuck’s sake, don’t answer it!” Too late…three masked men burst my bubble of maternal heaven.

Loud, loud, louder, unbearable Guns N’ Roses – ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’ blasting out. Psychological torture – menacing, they’d planned it perfectly – even down to the sounds.

The girl babies – innocent…oblivious in a nirvana of milky feed. Ear-piercing music jolted their startle reflex and stilled their bird-mouths. Then they swooped like black crows, violently snatching the girls from my breast, a Beretta ’34 fitted with a modern silencer to the tiny temples and two final dull kthuds…

She's got eyes of the bluest skies
As if they thought of rain
I hate to look into those eyes
And see an ounce of pain
Her hair reminds me
of a warm safe place
Where as a child I'd hide
And pray for the thunder
And the rain
To quietly pass me by

Sweet child o' mine
Sweet love of mine

Where do we go
Where do we go now
Where do we go
Sweet child o' mine