Young Writers Society

The creature slept. It slept and it slept and it slept and it did not stop. Not for anything. Sometimes, it seemed, it would never stop. But that was all right with her. That was more than all right. If it would just sleep forever, all her problems would be solved.

Breath after breath, the creature’s tiny chest rose and fell in a sleepy, rheumatic pattern. Holding it this close to one’s own body, feeling its heartbeat merge with the ticking of time itself, there was no doubt what it was. Not a doubt in the world. Its frail frame was wrapped in the protection of a blanket as pink as its rosy little cheeks, and in a strange sort of way, it resembled the image of an angel nuzzled by a cloud. But it seemed right. By god, it seemed right. What a treasure this was. What a prize, what a miracle. So small, so delicate, so young.

With its eyelids fluttered shut, a sure sign that it was deep in sleep, the baby curled up in the arms of its mother, using her heartbeat as its only source of warmth and comfort. The woman held it ever so lightly, staring at it with an intense, almost unhealthy, fascination. Its soft, pink face was the mere picture of innocence. So pure, so kind, so free of sin. For a moment, the woman envied it. Envied the purity that radiated off of its sweet skin. She had had that once. So recently, yet so long ago. But that purity was gone now. This child was the proof of that.

The woman stared at her daughter’s face. She looked at it not with love, not with affection, but with only a mild interest, a timid fascination. She knew how wrong this was. How horrible, despicable it was for a mother like her to feel this way. Weren’t mothers supposed to love their children? Look at them and instantly feel a sense of undying devotion, never-ending infatuation? She didn’t understand why it wasn’t the same for her. When she looked at this thing, this creature, she did not see a part of herself as she thought she would. This infant, whether or not it had come from her, was not hers. It couldn’t be. Its strange, scrunched up face. Its white, hair-less head. Its tiny, frail body with arms, ever gently, grasping for love that was not there. This could not be her child. She didn’t feel the sense of adoration that she was told she would. Was this her fault, or the child’s? Was it all a cold lie?

In the midst of thought, the woman felt a light tug on the hem of her skirt. She looked down and saw a small boy. Her boy. His large, brown eyes bore down into hers, touching into her very soul. She shivered despite herself. When others, strangers, would look at the boy, they would always coo in admiration. They looked at his golden-brown hair, his wide eyes filled with innocent intelligence, and instantly they fell in love. They called him adorable. Said he’d grow up to be a charmer. Told her how lucky she was to have a child with such looks and personality. She seemed to be the only one who didn’t see it. Who didn’t find him endearing, but instead cringed at the sight of those large, searching eyes. They seemed to watch her every move, understand her every thought and feeling. She hated it. He seemed to know everything about her, and she had so much she wanted to hide.

The child spoke. “Mommy,” he whispered to her, his eyes widening even more, causing her to tense, “Are you alright?”

Such an innocent question. So full of love, of care, of worry. But it only reminded her of just how well he could read her. Just how easily he could see her many sins, her numerous mistakes. She wanted to cry. He knew she didn’t love him. Knew she didn’t love his sister. But the worst of it all was the way he didn’t judge her. “I’m a monster!” she wanted to scream at him sometimes, when the pressure of being a mother got to her, “Hate me! Hate me!” But he wouldn’t hate her, and the pressure stayed. Even knowing how unwanted, how unloved he was, he never hated her. He only spoke to her with the soft, polite, innocent tone he was born with, gently reminding her to feed him, bathe him, put him to bed. He was so needy, so fragile, and so despite his intelligence he still needed her. That was before, though. Now the reminders were for his sister. He knew how to take care of himself, so she could focus all her energy on the newest whining creature in her arms. But she didn’t want to. She wasn’t ready. She’d never be ready.

“I’m fine, sweetie,” she replied. But her voice was strained. He most certainly could see through it. He knew, he always knew. And it killed her.

In some ways, not all, the boy was just like his father. So kind, so innocent. The two of them were endlessly needy, wanting so much for her. Things that she was too weak to provide. And both, she knew, loved her unconditionally, despite whether or not she loved them back. Like father, like son.

She remembered the first time she met his father. The very moment he had caught sight of her, he had become immediately infatuated. She was his muse, his drug, his addiction. Everything about her, it seemed, captivated him.

It was a windy afternoon, she recalled. The woman, only twenty years of age, lay stretched out in the sand, working on her golden tan with fierce determination. The bikini she wore was light and skimpy. A bright, attention-grabbing red. It was her favorite. Apparently, he liked it too.

The man had come up to her, walking barefoot in the burning sand, with a noticeable glint in his eye. He had smiled and introduced himself quite hopefully, but she was seldom listening. Most of her attention was focused on analyzing his body, for he was a quite attractive man. Large, brown eyes with a handsome face and a somewhat sculpted body. Only a few years older than she was herself. And better yet, he wore a shiny, expensive looking watch around his wrist. She liked that, she liked it a lot.

The man himself was slightly nervous and awkward. He handed her a few, cheesy pick-up lines and was constantly rubbing the back of his neck. Usually, the woman would have thrown a man like that to the side, but there was something about him that made her stay. His appearance, possibly, and maybe even his money. But no, there was something else, too. It was the way he looked at her, as if she were some kind of shining goddess. It was intoxicating, really, to be held at such value. She couldn’t get enough of it. His eyes shined with admiration, and it was because of that small, barely noticeable detail that she took out a pen and wrote her number on the palm of his hand. She never knew that this was what it would lead to. If she had, then maybe things would have turned out differently. But no, after that, she had him hooked.

The man never even attempted to hide his addiction, and the way he treated her like such a treasure just made her glow. The poems he wrote to her—claiming her to be his soul mate and presenting her compliment after compliment—they forced a smile on her face like nothing ever could. He admired her blond, curly hair. Praised her light blue eyes. Adored her shining, perfect teeth. Worshiped the very ground she walked on. It made her feel so…. wanted.

She had been so beautiful back then. Honestly, she still was now. But what had changed was the look of weariness, of despair, now plaguing her once hopeful, once shining eyes. She no longer loved him, and she knew it. In fact, she was fairly sure she had never loved him in the first place. It was all an act, a trick. Set up not to misguide him, but to misguide herself. She was smarter now, though. She knew the truth. And the truth was deadly.

When she had been so young and naïve, he had won her heart with gifts. Shining, golden bracelets delivered in miniature boxes. Bouquets of roses waiting patiently at her doorstep each day she came home. Little, yellow love notes hidden away in secret spots where he knew she would find them. It had all been too much to resist. He had truly loved her, and she had convinced herself that she felt the same way. And so before she could even stop and think about what she was doing, they were married and she was pregnant with their first child. A child she was not prepared for. That child now stood behind her, watching her in all its horrible innocence.

Even in pregnancy, she had begun to understand that motherhood was not all it had been cracked up to be. Other women had all told her how miraculous it felt to carry another life inside you, how wonderful she would feel the first time she held its tiny body in her arms. But all she felt was nausea, slowness, weight gain. None of the promised “glow” that every other woman claimed to have. Quite often, she found herself glancing down at her wedding ring. It was the largest, most-expensive ring her husband could find for her. In all definitions of the term, it truly was beautiful, and she had been far too stunned by it’s sparkle to even think about declining his proposal. Looking at it, she reminded herself over and over again that she loved this man, and that when the child came she would love him too. But when the child, her wonderful son, finally did arrive, nothing had changed. He was still just a burden. Still just a pain. And now, with her second child, history was repeating itself.

She gazed half-heartedly out the window, watching the waves crash again and again onto the sandy shore. The California beaches were always beautiful. She used to spend every other day out in the sun, wading in the waves with her friends. As soon as she reached the age of 18, she had packed up and moved here all the way from Ohio, with dreams of becoming an actress, or a model, or anything at all that would show off her beauty to the world. Alone and scared in the midst of Hollywood, these beaches had become her home. Her dreams, of course, had all changed when she had met her husband. He wasn’t filthy rich, but he earned enough to feed his family, guaranteeing that she would never have to work a day of her life. She liked that idea at first, until she realized that motherhood was a job in itself. A job she was not made for. In her mind, in her very soul, she was still a girl. And no mere girl is fit to raise a child.

“Mom?” she heard again. The boy. He was still here. “Do you want me to hold her? You can go take a break, if you want. Are you tired?”

She looked at him. He was so young himself. Yet, he was willing to help her out. Willing to act like an adult, instead of a child. More of an adult than she was, at least. Knowing that her baby was probably safer in his arms than hers, she gently handed it over.

“Thank you,” she said. He nodded in response. “Anytime,” he seemed to say, in his silence, “I’d do anything for you, mommy.”

She began to walk away, out to a chair in the backyard where she could sleep, when he spoke up.

“I love you, mom,” he said from behind her. His words were full of truth. Of meaning. He meant what he said; he loved her from the bottom of his heart.

“I love you too, honey,” she said back to him. But her words were empty, and he knew it.