Porker

Carrie got onto her hand and knees while the men ate breakfast, as was expected. She was eight months along with Woody's baby, and she felt fat. She _was _fat. The stress, the lack of any outlet, and the expectation that she'd just passively give it up to one of the men all contributed to putting on the pounds.

Woody held a slice of bacon under the table. Carrie sighed internally, but obediently oinked and squealed at the sight of food.

"Fucking cannibal," Woody joked. The rest of the table guffawed, save Floyd. Woody looked at his son. "You think you're going to be able to handle Porker, boy?" Floyd shifted in his seat awkwardly.

"She's the mother of the kids, dad. I don't think it's ..." he trailed off at his dad's expression. "Sure, me and Porker will get along real good."

Porker was Carrie's new nickname. And were she ever to forget it, it was tattooed on her lower belly, where it was visible if her belly was showing, just above the noxious Confederate flag also tattooed on her. She sighed. She needed to make it to Floyd. He was sweet enough that she could end this, with his volition or without it.