You can’t calculate the precise number of eyes that were staring at the center of the road. Attracted by a propulsion that doesn’t allow breaks, innumerable irises recorded, simultaneously, the same scene, showing at each one a different detail. Anyway, what was in the middle of the street was exactly the same thing for everyone.

Swollen veins and pieces of sticky skin mixed with blood, hypnotized those succubus gazes that couldn’t and didn’t want to move elsewhere. To attract the attention to that hybrid substance smashed to the ground of a normal city road, wasn’t only its chilling and abnormal presence, but (even more) its intrinsic meaning and value that, in most cases, is associated with that experience which we give the name of life, of motherhood.
Yes, because the “thing” that everyone looked at in that moment was placenta.

Making the road dirty of his red / blue carnal fluid, it seemed that it invoked help, as if to ask for a last act of salvation; unfortunately there is nothing remediable at that level: everything has already been done. Among the countless eyes that focused their pity on that first and last residue of life, there were also the pupils of who, that life, had her seen be born: the eyes of her mother. Slightly shifted from the mass, the woman observed that obscene organic creature, aware of what had happened to the rest, and in front of her, the evidence of her guilt assumed that ambiguous and horrible form, from which she could not look away.

The road beyond that piece of brutal flesh, now, was also staining with the gushing blood of the woman’s open wound: small drops fell like rain on the asphalt and, symbolically, mother and son were reunited, in that last embrace terrestrial that everyone ignored.
Staring relentlessly at that accumulation of abnormal mater(ial), sometimes impressive, the woman, in that placenta, saw the first cry of his son and, approaching with her hands outstretched towards that element that had belonged to her and that had been inside her, whispering said:

“What have I done?”
“What have I done?”

Suddenly, from behind, the woman felt her coat pull and, as she turned, a thin, thin, almost absorbed little voice whispered to her:
“Look what you did to me


Silvia Cegalin was born in 1985, in Italy. She is a independent art journalist and editor who graduated with honors in Theatre and performing arts at the University of Bologna. In 2014 she published, under the pseudonym Nausica Hanz, the experimental bilingual blog Kiri, kiri, kiri, a contemporary science fiction story, and in 2016 her story ge-WORD-en was published in the Rapso X collection: The best of RAPSODIA. She has just finished her first dream-psychedelic novel, which she hopes will see the light soon.