Chimera

A woman had given birth at the edge of the universe, which was sharp and treacherous and full of light and deep pools of dark. When she looked at her child she shrieked and her cries shook the plains of imagining. Great tears fell from her and became suspended in space, twirling slowly, collapsing, expanding, spiraling. Condensed. Floating.

Her child was nothing of her, it was completely different and she couldn't understand how some thing so different could have been inside her own body. How could it have been inside her own body and she know nothing of it. She started teaaring at her skin, peeling away layers of flesh to get at some answer at the heart of her, but in the end she had only torn herself apart in front of the child. Gaping and bleeding, hands still inside herself, she looked on last time at the child and say something there she hadn't seen the first time. It was in the eyes and the hair. It was something familiar and close, like beneath her fingernails.

She had made a mistake.