Victoria squirmed, feeling the contractions harder and more pronounced against her womb walls. A monster was about to be unleashed, and not just any kind of monster, but one who would destroy her life, sucking it slowly away like a leech. Edward was about to be born.
The conception had been appropriately filthy, an absinthe-fuelled orgy on their anniversary. "Suckle my fucktits!" she had screamed repeatedly, her legs dangling over a coffee table like a tadpole's, while daddy had fucked her systematically and cruelly. Indeed, at one point he withdrew a large cream donut and forced it into her gaping vagina, growling "eat it, bitch," with venom. It was a typical fetish of his, part of their secret, creepy life.
And now, nine months later, Mrs Cullen was feeling almost as bad as she had the morning after. Her usual drive for sex, drugs and alcohol had been extinguished, replaced by a vomit-inducing urge to squeeze this demon child out with as much gusto as possible. However, she still wanted a drink.
"Leon!" she gasped, referring to Mr Cullen, who was sitting next to her. "Bring me the fucking whisky!"
As usual pussy-whipped, Leonardo da Cullen (his parents had been on acid when they named him) reached into his bag and withdrew a full bottle, which Victoria pressed to her lips, imagining it to be her husband's penis, suckling the strong alcohol.
"I want my child to be born on a bed of fucking roses!" she screamed in the general direction of one of the doctors, who nodded, pulling out one of the bouquets she had brought in with her, laying them before her widened cunt hole, which was stretched to breaking point.
Screaming, Victoria tossed the bottle of whisky (which was now half empty) across the room and against the wall, where it smashed and stuck, dripping slowly to the floor.
"One more push should do it!" the doctor shouted, the urgency intense. With one final gasp, Victoria tensed her whole body, collapsing it down, before a slimy cannonball shot right out through the roses. His skin ripped on the thorns, causing bloody marks to appear all across his body, and before anyone could catch the child, it had slammed into the back wall, against the broken whisky bottle.
"I shall call the child … Edward!" Victoria screeched, a thunderclap resounding outside on the final word, before passing out. The bemused doctor walked over to the wall, where the young Edward was already licking up the spilt whisky.
