TWL 1208: “Her Drowned Envy”, by Alexis Dubon

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Welcome to Season 12 episode 1208.

Today’s episode features a story by Alexis Dubon: “Her Drowned Envy”. Performed by Addison Peacock, with a custom score by Nico Vettese of The Inky Pawprint.

Cataclysmic environmental change has made life difficult, and new life impossible. But one woman is determined to be a mother, willing to commit atrocities and suffer agonies if it means she has a baby to call her own. Body horror, eco-horror, and the horror of unremitting envy come together in this near-future story of a world soaked in death.

Warning: The Wicked Library is a horror fiction podcast created for a mature audience. Our stories contain graphic descriptions of pain, murder, violence, blood, betrayal, and inhumanity; monsters win, people die, and hope is often shattered. There is also beauty, heart, catharsis, and raw emotion. Fear may be deeply personal, but we all share it.If at any time a story takes you to a place too dark, turn on the lights, press pause, or press stop. And always remember, that unlike in the real world, these nightmares, and your participation in them, are under your control.

Producers: Daniel Foytik & Meg Williams
Resident Composer & Executive Producer: Nico Vettese, at The Inky Pawprint
Hosted by: Daniel Foytik
Artwork: Greg Shaffer
Score & Incidental Music: Nico Vettese at The Inky Pawprint
Main Theme: “The Library Awakens” Nico Vettese
Final Audio Mix: Daniel Foytik, 9th Story Studios LLC
FX: freesound.org

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Audio program ©2023 – 9th Story Studios LLC. All Rights Reserved.No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of 9th Story Studios LLC. The copyrights for stories are held by the respective authors.

Episode Transcript

(00:04):
Bland Story Studios, Kain Story aVoice. This is Addison Peacock and you're
listening to The Wicked Library. Warning. The Wicked Library is a horror fiction

(00:34):
podcast created for a mature audience.Our stories contain graphic descriptions of pain,
murder, violence, blood, betrayal, and inhumanity. Monsters win, people
die, and hope is often shattered. There is also beauty, heart,
catharsis, and raw emotion. Fearmay be deeply personal, but we all

(00:59):
share. If at any time astory takes you to a place too dark,
turn on the lights, press pauseor press stop, and always remember
that, unlike in the real world, these nightmares and your participation in them,
are under your control. Welcome tothe Wicked Library. I'm Daniel Floytech,

(01:34):
and I thank you for listening.A sincere thank you to those of
you who are supporting the show.Without you, this show would not be
possible. This season, all episodesare heard first by Patreon supporters and later
shared with the full audience. Whenyou support the show, you can choose
between ad free episodes, early accessto the stories, and at higher levels
of support you'll get premiere access toand field detective agency. Currently in production.

(01:57):
That's right, Frank is coming backand to your ears soon. You
can support the show at Patreon dotcom forward slash Wicked Library. A lot
of hard work and money goes intomaking the Wicked Library, and I really
do rely on this support to helpme pay the authors, voice actors,
composer and artists so that none ofthe Wicked Libraries contributors work for free.
For as little as three dollars amonth, you can help make the show

(02:19):
you love possible at Patreon dot comForward slash Wicked Library. Now, let's
get wicked with today's dark tale,told by Addison Peacock, featuring a custom
score by Niko Vites of the InkyPop prints Her drowned envy by alexis to

(03:27):
bond spears of grass, all dampwith dew clung to my bare feet,
grass so wet it feels like itshould be cold, but nothing is cold
anymore. The dawning sun hangs swollenin the sky, mirroring my overrighte belly,

(03:47):
making my blood enameled thighs glow inthe orange light. I lacker the
field and crimson with each step,marching across the endless green toward the birthing
pond, trying not to crumple inpain. Halfway the way, so many
women do, careful not to slipon the ruby's slick landscape, already soggy

(04:14):
and oversaturated, cutting through thick,swampy air. I have to make it
to the pond, birth the babyunderwater, wait for it to rise.
His face will cut through the surface, his round baby belly will be a
smooth little island. Only the strongestwill surface, the ones who can survive

(04:42):
this new world, this wet skyand weighty damp. There hasn't been a
baby strong enough to float for aslong as I can remember, not since
I was a child myself, nota single baby born with the lungs to
buoy them to life. I've picturedthis moment a thousand times, and now

(05:08):
that it's here, I am morecertain than ever. I will be the
one. I will know motherhood,prove that life can persist, that this
dampness won't drown out mankind. Mybaby will mean there's a future. I

(05:30):
will be the woman who ushers inhope for humanity. So many have been
denied, but not me. Irefuse to fail. I will not return
without a child. I am owedthat much fruitless births are expected. And

(05:54):
though the women who carried these doomedthings inside of them, who hoped for
a child and bled and cried fornothing, returned home in defeat, at
least they have people to return to. I have nothing, no one.

(06:15):
I have always been alone. Andhere I stand at the mouth of the
birthing pond, in the middle ofan empty pasture. I'm afraid of the
solitude that surrounds me. Most womensay that's the worst part. But I

(06:36):
am as alone anywhere else. AsI am here alone in this silent morning,
alone in the shallow water, mybody quakes. It's coming soon.
I am alone for the last time. Reeds bend toward me, too sodden

(07:00):
to stand upright, collapsing under theweight of the air. They look as
if they are bowing. They bowto my baby as it crowns, defiant
and determined and ready to breathe.You will live, I say, between
cries, you are the one.Beads of salt water drop from my brow

(07:28):
and into the freshwater pond that's seenso many should be mothers and their sweat,
so many grieving women and their tears, so much salt and sacrifice,
so much blood and death, andnever new life in return. But today
is different, Today is mine.All the breath rushes from my lungs as

(07:54):
I push and contract, push andwail into the suffocating air, that thick,
foggy air, as heavy as glass, shattering to liquid shards against the
force of my screams. I duckdown beneath the pond. Water lie flat
against its silty bottom, paint itred. Blood spools from my body,

(08:20):
dissipating like smoke, rising and dancingin the ripples of my contractions, sanguine
flames, engulfing me until all Iam is inferno. One last scream boils
from my mouth as bubbled chaos explodesagainst the stifled air above. The baby

(08:43):
is out, and I dragged myselfabove the surface, gasping for breath,
waiting for him to meet me.Slowly he floats to the algae freckled surface,
rising like mercury. His back breaksthrough to the wet air above.

(09:05):
Turned the wrong way. He doesn'tscream, he doesn't breathe. I lift
his tiny body, heavier than itshould be. His face is slack ray,

(09:28):
his eyes are swollen, and hislips are cold. Nothing is cold
anymore, except my son. Itry to shake him to life, but
his head only lolls loose limp.The baby is dead. The pond rises

(09:56):
with my tears. Reeds shake behindme, announcing that I am no longer
alone, not even a moment tospend with my misery. I'm going to
bury the baby in the bank ofthe pond. It's a rushed job,

(10:16):
sloppy, but the intrusion jars mewith panic. I suck sounds of grief
back into my mouth and hide.A woman approaches, fighting her way through
the wet canary grass. Wails likebolts of lightning, slice through my fresh
anguish, my sorrow overshadowed by bellowinghope, still searing with the pain of

(10:43):
a torn body, still trailing blood. I keep silent. The woman enters
the water, unaware of my eyeson her, and sits with her knees
bent into herself, shoulder deep.I don't need to see her face to
know, even from behind, she'sunmistakable feline. Those cries that sound like

(11:09):
bird's song, that hair that waterfalls down her back, soft and clean,
silky even in the dense, disgustingair. If it wasn't for all
this water, this constant, hoveringvapor. Feleine would have seen what everyone
else could see. But mirrors havelong since become obsolete, two beaded with

(11:33):
dewy specks of condensation to show anythingbut a clouded silhouette like Feleine. I've
never seen my own face, butI know enough to be envious. With
fingers that were never quite as longand slender as hers, I've traced my

(11:56):
features, lashes that don't feel richand lush the way hers are, Lips
easily lost beneath my touch, notlike the plump, pink pillows that stretch
across Pheleine's face when she smiles,which is all the time. Besides,
I can tell from the way peoplelook at me that I'm no great beauty.

(12:18):
Feleine has everything, and now shewill have a baby too. It
was always going to be her.This baby will be the one, the
baby born of Feleine's perfection, bornof a woman whose life has never known

(12:39):
sorrow or failure or want. Itshould have been me. Screams shake the
earth for hours, and I staystone, still out of sight, hidden
beneath the drooping reeds. I amfolded too, quietly, quivering from the

(13:01):
pain of birth that shreds my body. But I'm too focused on this endless
aching moment to succumb and make asound. Not even a whimper leaves my
lips. I will be a mother. I just have to be patient.
Not until the sky turns black doesFeleine deliver. Her cries halt for a

(13:24):
moment, and everything is silent withanticipation. The air, for once is
light, made of a million angels, all holding their breath. The darkness
of a moonless night blankets the field, the pond Felene. But when an

(13:46):
unfamiliar pitch ruptures the emptiness, Iknow exactly what it is. Victory Feline
dissolves into laughter. All the starsthat hid in the black sky, wading
with hope and worry, reveal themselvesand shine down on her. The pond

(14:09):
dances in celebration under their twinkling light. She is the first mother of the
New World. Her blood, redas rose petals, blooms in the water,
its feckined fragrance concealing the sharp tangof my congealing placenta rotting in the

(14:31):
marsh, unceremoniously discarded in my hurryto hide the salt of faline sweat joins
the sweet smell of birth blood,earthy and rich, swallowing the vinegar stench
of denied motherhood. I emerge throughthe reeds at last, wielding the rock

(14:52):
I've been gripping for what feels likeforever. I returned to town, met
with thunderous applause. Tears streamed down, faces already beaded with moisture. Sprays
of waterfly from clapping hands. Ihold new life in my arms. Humanity

(15:20):
may yet survive because of me.I will never be alone again because of
him. They all watched through thewindows, too devastated by habit to hope
as two women left for the pond. But they are used to women not
returning, and no alarms are raisedwhen Feleine does not follow my arrival.

(15:45):
Childbirth is perilous, even in easytimes. They might not even notice she's
still gone. Feilene has never beenoverlooked. If only she were alive to
see it, to feel the invisibilitthat is so familiar to me. No
one even mentions her name when theyrealize she hasn't come home. They'll all

(16:10):
assume she didn't make it through herbirth. So many women don't. But
the first time she'll be ordinary.They have no reason to think. She's
lying at the bottom of the pond, head caved in just above her loved
eye. Motherhood is everything I knewit would be. The baby takes to

(16:38):
latching easily, painlessly. He sleepsthrough the night and rises with the sun.
He cous and smiles like he understandsthe miracle. He is. A
month of laughter and peace, Motherand baby, Me and him, and

(17:00):
the glory of dreams come true.For a full cycle of the moon.
I know, unflemished joy, neveralone anymore. Now it's me and him.
It isn't until the emptiness of ablack sky that he cries, the

(17:22):
first time a moonless night blankets ourhome. I try to sing to him,
try to comfort him. I tellhim that he's mine and we will
be together always, that I lovehim and no harm will ever come,
That he is the start of anew world, that he is so special,

(17:44):
my baby. But he does notstop. He pulls away, shrieking
and howling, tries to free himselfof my grasp. I offer him my
breast, and my motherly instincts arestrong, so attuned to him, so

(18:06):
natural. I was made for this. No one has to teach me a
thing. I doubt anyone would haveanything to teach. The last generation of
mother's is gone, unable to withstandthe wet air in old age, no
one still living would have any experienceto share. There There, I whisper,

(18:27):
maybe he is only hungry. Thepain from his suckle strikes hard.
My milk is too hot as itpasses through me into his eager mouth.
He sucks greedily from my body,but it struggles to reach him, and
he sucks harder. It feels curdled, clumpy. Pain radiates through my body

(18:55):
and I pull away. Mother's milkdribbles down his chin, But it's wrong.
It's gray and watery, murky siltspeckled peppered with sediment. A slight
green tint coats it like varnish.He cries again and reaches for more.

(19:21):
Though it hurts, I endure.I cannot stand to see my prints.
Unhappy. Grains of dirt leave mybody and tears fall from my eyes.
Failine could never persist through this pain. I was made for motherhood. This
is as it had to be.I wipe algae from his chin. The

(19:47):
baby does not stop. Until morning. I put the knight behind me.
It had to have been a baddream, despite the linger skuld in my
body that insists otherwise. Another monthpasses, all giggles and glee. He

(20:08):
is growing and becoming so strong,a hearty baby, a survivor, a
champion. But under the darkness ofanother moonless sky, he cries again,
screaming wailing animal sounds that pierce myskull, unnatural sounds no baby should make.

(20:34):
I try to convince myself that I'mdreaming again, but I know that's
not true. I try to convincemyself that there are some things new mothers
can't be prepared for. Maybe thisis normal. But the scent of blood
fills my nose, that sweet blood, Falen's blood, too sweet, too

(20:57):
floral, And I remember the stinkof my own after birth, like rot
and vinegar and garbage. I pushthose memories away. This is my baby.
There is nothing to worry about.There there, I whisper. Baby

(21:17):
is only hungry. He latches andsuckles, and I am incinerated. Fire
rips through me. Everything burns.I remember the cold lips of my firstborn
and remember to be grateful for theheat. Heat means he's alive, greedy

(21:38):
boy, He's taken more than hisstomach can fit. Baby spits up,
spewing cloudy gray filth from his preciousmouth, and the night pulls away from
me. As I collapse in pain, the morning light reveals crusts of blood
over my breast, the bed drenchedand filtered. Dead tadpoles streak the sheets,

(22:03):
algae and marsh grass cling to mybody. My baby's face is smeared
in grime and blood clots, thecloying sweetness of decaying reeds, the copper
tang of a weeping womb. Whenthe black sky night comes a third time,

(22:25):
I embraced to expect it. Ifsuch is the price of motherhood,
I accept. The pain of pondwater feedings is torturous, but it's one
night. I should appreciate the reminderthat water brought him safely into the world.
It marks the miracle of his birth, a commemoration made by my own

(22:48):
body. With the darkness come histears. I raise him to my breast,
exhausted already from the anticipation of pain. He suckles, but I have
nothing to give. His screams rattlemy spine, his hands grab tiny fingernails

(23:11):
scraping across my skin. His facegoes red with fury at a hunger I
can't satisfy. Soft strokes against hisdowny head aren't enough to soothe him.
Sweet melodies sung only slightly out ofkey don't calm him. My voice isn't
as beautiful as Phealine's, isn't avoice made for singing. Herresses and lullabies

(23:34):
aren't what he wants anyway. Hewants to be fed. I try again
and again, but I am empty. He only cries harder. I know
what he needs, and if hecan't get it from me, he'll still
have it. Baby, will gethis water all the way across the field,

(24:03):
over the wet grass, and deeperinto the mist, through the soggy
shield of reed, back to wherewe first came into each other's lives.
Here at the pond's edge, thefog is thick. Sheets of suspended liquid
turn the air to glass, heavy, almost solid with moisture. The vapors

(24:26):
that hover around me pick up whatlittle gleam the stars offer and reflect their
light, making a mirror of thehaze. I see my reflection for the
first time. I see my ownbody, my face, the baby wails

(24:47):
in my arms, but I amso struck by this revelation I barely hear
him. The figure before me isa bit gauzy, just clear enough to
see that I am st breaking.My lips are full and plum, purple,
stunning. My eyes are light andmilky, unlike any I've ever seen.

(25:11):
My cheeks, though sunken low,even in the darkness of the night,
a glitter like. My skin ismade of dewdrops. In the mirror
of the fog, my baby isso much more still than when I look
down at the kicking boy in myarm. In the mirror, he's sleeping.

(25:33):
He's smaller, too, like whenhe was new. Baby reaches grabs
at the reflection. He smiles,even though this is his night to cry,
a smile bigger than I've ever seen. His wails are giggles now,
and he stretches forward toward the fogwith eager little fingers. His reflection does

(26:00):
not mirror his impatience. Spell Boundby my own beauty, I lean in
to inspect the blurry image more closely. He squeals with joy as my movement
brings him nearer. Even at thisdistance, it is difficult to make out

(26:21):
the details of my face and thegossamer glass. I step forward, too
mesmerized to notice the tangle of reedsat my feet. Caught in the knot,
I tumble forward, shattering the mist. With the baby in my arms.
I can't use my hands to breakthe fall. I will not let
him go. My arms clasp tighteraround him to shield him from the impact,

(26:45):
and I plunge through the surface ofthe pond, down to the bottom,
where a red stained rock waits forme. A hollow thud drums against
my skull, and my vision goesblack as the night. Cracked bone leaks
brain fluid, blood swells, myeye, lid shut still. I cling

(27:07):
to the baby. I cling tohim until there is no strength in my
arms, until something pulls him awayand he is gone. Blood and salt
and silt fill my lungs, andall I feel is cold. All I
hear is the sound of laughter,layered laughter, mirrored giggles, a voice

(27:37):
I know, like bird song,so much more beautiful than mine, A
harmonized blur of happy sounds, fallingfarther and farther away until they vanish.
I'm left with the familiar scent ofblood and the familiar silence of solitude.

(28:07):
I shut my eyes in the murkof the pond, knowing I will never
open them again. Thank you forlistening to episode number twelve oh eight.

(28:49):
Today's author was Alexis Dubon with hertale Her Drowned Envy. Today's story was
told by Addison Peacock. I'm DanielFoytek and I've been your host today.
Our resident composer and executive producer isNiko Vettes of the Inky Pop. Print.
Artwork for today's episode was created byGreg Schaeffer. To find out more
about The Wicked Library and other NinthStory Studio shows, visit the Wickedlibrary dot

(29:14):
com and ninth Story dot com.If you'd like to help keep this collection
of dark tales coming, please supportThe Wicked Library on Patreon at Patreon dot
com forward slash Wicked Library. Youcan also help by leaving a five star
rating and short review in Apple podcasts. These ratings and reviews help other listeners
find the show, which helps generaterevenue to ensure no one contributing to the
show works for free. The WickedLibrary is created by Ninth Story Studios LLC.

(29:40):
All rights reserved.