Day #9, Possession – by Amber Averay
The tiny little face, so peaceful and sweet in repose, was perfection. Button nose, rosebud lips, cheeks as rounded and soft as pillows – she’d never loved anyone as much as she loved this beautiful baby. Even the faint bluish smudges beneath his eyes were a work of art. She traced a finger above his skin, not daring to touch him lest she rouse him from slumber. As marvellous as her boy was, he had a pair of lungs on him that could wake the dead! She was indescribably proud of him, her exquisite little man.
Some days she just sat and watched him while he slept, waiting for his little coos of amusement, the dopey little smiles she couldn’t get enough of, the faces he pulled that ranged from intense to dreamy.
She was a good mother. She made sure he was perfectly swaddled, fed, changed, and loved nothing more than to hold him in her arms and rock him. He could get heavy, but it was a cherished weight she couldn’t get enough of.
She’d been born to be a mother. She knew it, deep in her bones. It was a role she’d been made for, but unfortunately one that didn’t come to her easily. She’d been disappointed, frustrated, heartbroken too many times; when this little angel came into her life she’d feared to touch him, worried she was cursed to break every dream that promised to come true.
But this little bundle of sublimity did not disappear, did not leave her with empty arms and a hollowed heart; as much as she feared to hope, she needed to trust that this was real. Would always be real.
‘My darling, darling love,’ she whispered, tucking the blanket about him and refraining from tapping his adorable nose. He really was hers; would be her son forever. Her joy; her pride; her reason for living.
Yes, she was a good mother; this was her destiny.
Footsteps squeaked down the pristine hallway, getting closer. She turned toward the open doorway, finger pressed to her lips. ‘He’s sleeping,’ she warned, before knuckles could rap on the wood and disturb him.
The nurse nodded, face inscrutable. ‘Come on, Shelleigh. It’s dinnertime.’ Though his voice was toneless, he had kept it respectfully low.
She’d completely lost track of time, so entranced was she by her baby. Gently scooping him up, nestling him against her shoulder, she crooned meaningless words as she followed the nurse toward the common room. He wasn’t one of her usual ones, but unlike some of the others this one was pleasant, if cold – at least he didn’t call her stupid names like ‘baby butcherer’ and ‘tyke torturer’.
They reached the main room filled with decidedly-odd people – her arms tightened protectively around the infant – and kept her head down. Some of the people in here were unnecessarily cruel, calling her boy a ‘toy’, a ‘lifeless doll’, and cruelly referring to her as an idiot. One had dared accuse her of having a doll because she couldn’t be trusted with real babies, sniggering that at least this one couldn’t be beaten or starved or drowned…
But others were kind. Others would hold her boy and sing to him, help change him, and keep him entertained with stories of ‘before’. Of the ‘outside’.
She’d been here enough years now to know who her child would be safe with, and who couldn’t be trusted.
Brushing strands of wispy grey hair from her eyes, Shelleigh sat herself down and smiled at her baby. He was worth it. He made every day bearable.
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