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墨書 Inktalez
The acrid smell of burning flesh invaded my nostrils as the old scar on my real Uterus began to heat up. My Mother’s high heel punctured the Silicone fake pregnancy belly, and the Shoe Tip shot out a Scalpel blade that pressed precisely against the third stitch of my cesarean section—the masterpiece personally sewn by Director Wang after my Miscarriage at fourteen.
"The audience wants to see a close-up of your real gestational sac rupturing." Her Crystal Nails scraped across the Live Camera, and a sticky fluid oozed from the seams of her manicure, smelling of Formaldehyde. My Stepfather's Wedding Ring got stuck in the hollow of my collarbone, the barbs on the inside of the ring snagging the Umbilical Cord knot from the Embryo Specimen in the freezer.
The female officer's Service Pistol forced my clenched teeth apart, the pattern on the barrel perfectly matching the spiral structure of Director Wang's glasses chain. The moment the bullet pierced the Magazine, I tasted the gauze that had been stuffed into my mouth that night in the operating room—soaked in Saline Solution and Dexamethasone injection.
The hem of Director Wang's white coat brushed against the Stretch Marks on my real abdomen, mingling with the scent of disinfectant and the sour smell of sweat from when he injected me with Ovarian Stimulation Injection years ago. His badge reflected countless girls tied to Dissection Tables, their Social Security Numbers rising from the Amniotic Fluid seeping between my legs.
"The client has added an order for corneas." My Stepfather's Crocodile Leather Shoes crushed my ring finger, leaving an imprint of the Floor Tile pattern from the abandoned operating room at the Maternal and Child Health Hospital. The shipping slip that slipped from his cuff floated into the fire, and the Barcode reassembled in the flames into a forged Number on my Birth Certificate.
The Electrode Pad of the Fetal Monitor suddenly pierced my real skin. The display was not showing a heartbeat but rather serial numbers from twenty years ago related to baby trafficking cases. My Mother tore off her false eyelashes and threw them into my Pupil, with strands of her grafted hair connected to a temperature control chip from a Cold Chain Transport Box.
The flame-retardant fabric of the female officer's uniform curled under high temperatures, revealing tattered remnants of my Junior High school uniform beneath her armpit. As the fire hose crashed through the Silicone prosthesis, she began to shed her Badge, revealing a Black Snake totem branded on its back, with rust water seeping out like defrosting ice from a freezer.
"Product number 48 has lost its heartbeat!" Director Wang's Scalpel plunged into my real Cervix, and countless girls signing Organ Donation Consent Forms reflected in the blade's edge. Their wrist scars formed a QR code, which was being covered by rocket gifts flooding in during my Mother’s Live Stream.
My Stepfather's Wedding Ring suddenly got caught in the suture line at my Fallopian Tube ligation point. As the diamond edges tore through old scars, I heard the buzzing sound of a freezer compressor restarting—exactly matching the vibration frequency that had come from the attic that night when I was fourteen.
The female officer’s Compound Eyes split into hexagons, each facet reflecting ashes from different years' baby trafficking case files. What popped out from her tactical belt was not handcuffs but a Clamp connected to nutrient solution tubes resembling an Umbilical Cord, engraved with the magnetic strip Number from my Social Security Card.
My Mother suddenly shoved a burning Live Streaming Phone into my vagina. The sparks from a lithium battery explosion ignited leftover ovulation pills, and smoke spelled out Missing Young Girl List in the night sky. Her newly attached hair tangled around my Fallopian Tube Ligation Line, and droplets of Hair Dye reacted chemically with Prothrombin Activator.
"The temperature in the live transport box is abnormal!" Director Wang’s glasses chain tightened around my real Umbilical Cord, and Lens refracted embryos dividing inside an Incubator. Their Product Codes flickered with fetal movements, synchronizing with tips sent during Live Stream broadcasts.
The female officer's service pistol suddenly shifted direction. As the bullet pierced the third button of the stepfather's suit, I saw the undercover police officer from the 2003 drug bust, his face shattered like a honeycomb, merging with the placental tissue spilling from between my legs.
My mother's high heel dug into my cesarean incision, and the microcamera that popped out of her inner pocket began live streaming a close-up of the uterus wall. The gifts transformed by the barrage effects turned tangible, rose petals slicing through the fallopian tube's scab, while chocolate coins blocked the cervical mucus plug.
At the moment my retina detached, I bit down on the glass shards hidden in my molars for ten years. Plasma sprayed onto the burning firefighting air cushion, and the charred marks formed a crucial evidence chain from a whistleblower letter—the one used by my stepfather as toilet paper for a desperate plea for help.
"Warning! The value of goods is depleting!" Director Wang's roar mixed with the fetal monitor's alarm. A check slipped from his lab coat pocket, softened by amniotic fluid, with ink smudged at the signature spot resembling my revenge doodles drawn after my miscarriage at fourteen.
The black snake on the female officer's uniform epaulet suddenly shed its skin. The newly formed scales gleamed with a metallic sheen like a test tube brush. As the snake's tongue coiled around my cornea, a syringe-like fang pierced my optic nerve, injecting remnants of ovulation drugs I had been forced to swallow years ago.
When my stepfather's crocodile leather shoes crushed my left ovary, the tread left an imprint of a watermark from a cross-border logistics order. A frozen embryo transport agreement fell from his torn tie, with my bite mark from that fateful night at fourteen pressed against the signature spot.
"Live stream traffic has surpassed one million!" My mother's ecstatic scream shattered the obstetrical forceps. The carnival effects swirling on her phone materialized, virtual flames licking at my organs being disassembled and sold, while tip amount figures transformed into surgical instrument numbers branded onto my liver's surface.
As the riot control fork pierced my pelvis, I felt the spare magazine at the female officer's lower back. The date etched on the brass shell matched the day I was locked in a freezer during junior high. A microchip embedded in the primer flashed with a cold blue light similar to Director Wang's glasses chain.
"The client needs fresh oocytes!" Director Wang's expander widened my real birth canal. As the instrument's teeth snagged on old sutures at the cervix, I saw my youthful oocytes dividing in culture medium, each nucleus stamped with different men's social security numbers.
My stepfather's wedding ring suddenly buzzed like a test tube shaker. The diamond refracted surveillance footage from seventy-two different angles, each camera live streaming the process of my organs being removed. A cold chain transportation slip popped out of his cufflink, with my fourteen-year-old desperate handwriting at the signature spot.
In the final frame before consciousness faded, my bloodied fingertip touched the female officer's pupil. Her iris peeled away like a frozen embryo, revealing a police body camera hidden behind it—the camera was replaying my mother's surrogacy contract signed twenty years ago.
(End of chapter)
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