Cycle

[Brownlie]

His free hand snatches at my hair, wrenches my head down. "Finish me," he orders, and the taste is more bitter than the dinners I burn, sacrifices of a failed wife. I choke and next to the bed, the baby cries. I swallow, the baby suckles, his father snores. Leaking milk, blood and tears, I empty.

That's a whole lot of suckling. Poor woman