The Spawn

This deals with post natal depression and the death of a minor.

Read at own discretion.


1. 1/1

Staring at the crying bundle in the corner of the room, she sat on the filthy mattress. Her hands were pressed firmly to her aching ears, her muddy knees pulled closely to her swollen chest.
The thing in the corner continued wailing, demanding attention. Immediate attention.
But she didn't know how to give it attention; she didn't understand what it wanted.
She slowly peeled her hands away from her ears, her head pounding with the beat of every pathetic whimper.
She cautiously walked over to the grey lump of cloth on the hard wooden seat, and gingerly peeled back the wet cloth. A small alien face peered up at her, tiny lungs bellowing like a bison.
She grimaced,
carefully prodding its tiny inflated stomach with the tip of her grubby fingernail.
The thing squawked, looking up at her with big blue eyes.

She knew what it wanted.
The thing that was supposed to come so naturally to her.
She was expected to be able to pick up the screaming ball of humanness,
and be able to automatically understand how to look after it.

She is terrified of the alien.
Terrified of what it means, and what it will grow up to become.
She is terrified of where this thing came from.
The spawn of the man who ruined her life, who so easily took her innocence,
and replaced it with a burning regret, and an everlasting feeling of worthless filth.
This thing who so willingly became the most loathed thing in her universe,
which she was supposed to love unconditionally.

The child will hate her, she fears.
The thing will grow up, and be ashamed.
Be disgusted.
Hate what it is, who it is, and what it came from.
Question its life, question her life.
Question everything.  
So many questions running through her tiny brain she can hardly cope.

She buries her head in her hands once more, trying in desperate vein to block the screeching from her head.
Hate begins to brew slowly in the pit of her stomach. An unavoidable rock at the pit of her stomach.
A hate so strong.
A hate so wrong.

The crying didn't stop that night.
But the crying was not the cry of a new born infant, new to the world.

The cry was of a heartbroken mother, confused and scared,
Holding a limp, lifeless body in her shaking hands.

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