horsons reworked

version reworked using ai

Jack Horson was yanked awake by a fist pounding against his bedroom door — meaty, heavy, unmistakable. "Jack, breakfast is ready!" His mother's voice boomed through the house. He groaned, pulling the covers tighter, already mourning the warmth he was about to lose. But skipping breakfast wasn't an option. Last time he tried that, he spent the next month as the family toilet.
He listened to her heavy footsteps retreat down the hall, her belly slapping the walls as she waddled toward the stairs. That belly had swallowed more than one of his friends. His first real girlfriend among them.
Jack was twenty-two, a year out of college, and still living under his mother's roof mostly because leaving meant giving up the only roof he could afford. The only sister with whom he had a somewhat normal relationship was Molly. She was the closest to his age — just ten months younger — and the only one who seemed to have any boundaries left.
The smell of sizzling meat hit him halfway down the stairs, pulling him faster than he intended. He stepped into the kitchen and stopped. The table was buried under mountains of meat — roasted, fried, steaming — the whole room thick with it.
His fifteen sisters surrounded the table, all noise and energy, their laughter and chatter bouncing off the walls. Jack grabbed a chicken drumstick and tore into it. Across the table, his mother picked up an entire ham and swallowed it whole. Her eyes lit up. His father belched loud enough to rattle the dishes, and just like that, breakfast was over.
Jack slipped out while his sisters cleared the table. He was halfway up the stairs before he heard the applause from the kitchen — he didn't look back. Upstairs, he pulled on clothes and tried to focus on the day ahead, but the laughter kept following him.
Jack preferred spending his time away from the house. He had few friends, but the ones he had mattered. Brianna Fuller lived two houses down — his best friend, though he'd never call her his girlfriend. Bryce Enderson was the other. Between them and the quiet of anywhere that wasn't here, Jack could almost pretend his life was normal.
There were only a handful of families nearby. The Fullers. The Endersons. The Bloathes kept to themselves mostly — nobody talked about them much, and nobody seemed to want to.
That evening, Greta lounged in the living room, a half-eaten pizza balanced on the arm of the couch. The room was warm, the lights low. Rorik sat beside her, quiet, turning something over in his mind. Minerva darted in from the hallway, all energy, and threw herself onto the couch between them. Greta smiled but her eyes were elsewhere. Rorik watched the girl for a moment, then looked away. Something had been decided. He just hadn't said it yet.
Later that night, Rorik lay beneath the heavy quilted covers next to Greta, who snored like a chainsaw. The room was dim, the moon casting thin shadows across the walls. Tomorrow he would have to talk to Georg Enderson. The trade had to happen. He stared at the ceiling until sleep finally took him.
Jack opened the front door expecting an empty house. Instead he found Greta on the sofa, legs tucked under her, belly resting heavy on the cushions. She watched him with an expression he couldn't quite read.
"Come here," she said.
He almost turned for the stairs. Almost. But something in her voice stopped him. He stood in front of her, arms crossed, unsure where to look.
"You think I'm your mother," Greta said, a slow smile spreading across her face. "I'm not." She shifted, and for just a moment Jack saw it — a face, pressed into the flesh of her belly. A woman's face. Mouth open. Eyes closed.
Jack's legs went out from under him.