By Sarah Daly
Ever since Baby had appeared on her doorstep, via an act of divine magic, she had been consumed by Baby. The hours, filled with innumerable tasks, passed so quickly. Indeed, she hardly had time to eat a full meal or shower, since she had to be near Baby, at all times, or Baby would fuss and squeal and reach its chubby little hands upwards, as if siphoning the world’s love.
Baby never grew, Baby was always Baby. Frozen as if by magic, Baby touched everyone who came into its life. Baby had roamed the world, passed from person to person. Baby had felt many hands: small, large, warm, cold, smooth, scratchy. And Baby was really real with a beating heart, and lungs, and pinkish cheeks, and crystal blue eyes, and tufts of inky black hair. Baby had no sex, no gender. Baby was Baby, smooth and pink and always clean.
On their daily walks, other women would often pause and look at the child, strapped carefully in the stroller. Their eyes were greedy, longing, and Mother quickly pushed Baby forward, so Baby was not stolen. But Baby enchanted them anyway; Baby’s gaze was grasping, insatiable.
Every night, Mother sings to Baby until her voice is hoarse, every nursery rhyme that comes in her mind. She rocks and holds Baby, unaware whether it is day or night; Baby is completely dependent on her, and she has a sense of rightness, of security, a sense of completeness when she is with Baby. She can think of nothing else, of doing nothing else but to be with Baby! She would hollow out her insides, for Baby.
And Baby wants her, all of her. Baby sometimes gums her fingers, even drawing a little blood, somehow (she could not find Baby’s teeth, but could feel them sometimes). She would shiver at Baby’s firm grasp of her, and knew she should pull away, even admonish Baby, but she could not! She could not! And after all, she yearns to feed Baby from her own body, instead of canned milk. So, if he desires a little of her blood, then she relinquishes it, gladly. She would turn herself inside-out for Baby.
Baby is a miracle. A miracle she conjured from the landscape of her dreams. In her solitary bed, she had imagined cradling a child’s softness in her own arms, every night, for months. And then, one day, on her door-step, tucked into a tiny woven basket, was Baby. To her, even Baby’s babblings made perfect sense. She could divine Baby’s language as a maternal instinct blossomed within her, replacing baser, coarser desires. She feels purified by Baby, somehow.
One afternoon, she pushes Baby in the park, smiling in contentment. It’s a lovely day, a magical day, to be a Mother. Autumn is just beginning; the foliage turning to vivid shades of orange, and yellow, and red. She will gather some leaves and twigs, to make a wreath with Baby, when they return home.
When they reach the playground, she carefully parks the stroller and walks back a little ways to retrieve the raddle Baby had thrown on the ground. As she bends over, she suddenly feels a premonition, a nervous tingling of danger. She quickly straightens and turns around, only to witness a woman in a dark, flowing gown, scooping Baby from the stroller. Paralyzed for only an instant, she darts after the woman, shouting frantically as if in a nightmare; yet the woman races towards the woods at the edge of the park, oblivious to the shouts, the pleas to stop.
Mother runs and runs, her legs gaining speed until she finally overtakes the woman, tackling her bodily to the ground. Baby wails beneath their combined weights. Mother is frantic, grabbing Baby, checking for bruises, pressing Baby tightly to her breast. But the woman recovers, knocks her down, wrenches Baby from her, and begins to run once again. Mother stands, stumbles, and tries to follow, yet the woman runs faster and faster. Soon, the woman is gone, deep into the woods. Mother collapses on the ground, clawing desperately at the empty grass as she loses consciousness, descending into a dark, nameless slumber.
Hours later, Baby is crawling towards her. Her mouth opens in recognition, and her arms reach forward yearning to hold, to touch Baby. Yet Baby crawls faster than she can and soon fills her vision completely. Now, only inches away, she notices that Baby’s face is distorted into a malevolent, cunning expression as little white fangs protrude from pink lips. The fangs are probing, aiming for her heart. Baby, she cries, pleads, it cannot be Baby, it cannot be. Yet her denials are useless as Baby’s teeth pierce the tender skin on her breast and drain the blood from her body.
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Sarah Daly is an American writer whose fiction, poetry, and drama have appeared in forty-seven literary journals including The Inflectionist Review (nominated for Best Spiritual Literature Awards, Orison Books), Anti-Heroin Chic, The Sandy River Review, Across the Margins, and Tipton Poetry Journal.