Stone Circle Cry Me A River

This particularly tender body, the smallest and weakest of the brood born half dead, had been the main source of strife throughout Amber's pregnancy. Nearly every sharp pain she had felt, every nudge of discomfort, and every sweep of sickness that had caused her to uncontrollably vomit behind the scenes, had been the fault of the youngest Ansbjørn-Ciel. She was a kicker, a thrasher; all squirmy and hateful towards anything that sought to suppress her. It wouldn't even be that big of a surprise to learn that she had kicked her own twin to death in-utero because she felt crowded -- though the true likeliness of this event was highly debatable.

There was a second of relief, when all those other bodies had exited the womb, leaving her with the space her body felt it deserved. But all such joy was wiped away with a severe pressure and then the brilliantly violent sensation of being born. The air was the most unpleasant thing about it, and as soon as her lungs adjusted to the cold strangle of using them for the first time, she squealed in displeasure and struggled to come to terms with what was happening.

She was the most still she had even been in this moment, shocked into stillness as a warmth began to bathe away all the unpleasantness clinging to her tiny body. She cried, her limbs stiff, paralyzed by the newness, realizing that she preferred the crowded womb to this strange and lonely activity that she overcoming her now. Soon she was shoveled in beside her brother, comforted finally by something she thought she knew, and she squirmed into his side, while her mouth began puckering instinctively for the milk-gorged teat looming somewhere around her scrunched face.

I only intended to write one goddamn paragraph >> wtf!