She made airplane noises while balancing the slime-covered spoon as it made its descent, begging for a landing strip, but when he refused to open his mouth all she could picture was ramming the spoon out the back of his cherubic head.
Not that she ever would.
She was a good mom.
Instead she squeezed his cheeks with thumb and index finger then wrestled the spoon into the gap thus produced. He sputtered, most of the slime shooting out to fleck against her blouse.
“Wah ha,” he squealed, clapping his hands together in delight.
She often thought about suicide. Plunging headlong into the great yawning abyss. The dissipation of all that she was. A merging with what is: Gaia, the Earth, Heaven. She tells herself she will never act on it.
She tells herself a lot of things since little Jack was born.
But who else could she talk to? David certainly wouldn’t understand what she was feeling. He’d want to cut it open and examine it under a microscope, questioning her about the minutia, extrapolating invalid conclusions. It was his way and she despised that about him.
She waits by the window watching the road. Behind her Jack plays with his stuffed animals on the carpet. His babbling drove railway spikes into her temples, each successive blow louder and more intense than the last.
“Hurry up.”
The waiting was the worst part. She could deal with the increased cost. She knew how to hide it from David. It made taking care of Jack easier.
But the waiting.
The waiting was not something she could handle.
She could taste blood in her mouth by the time the taxi arrived. She swallowed and hurried out. Paid the man and retreated back inside the house with the paper bag he handed her.
If Jack noticed her absence, he showed no signs of it.
In the kitchen she removed the bottle from the paper bag, opened the window above the sink, then burned the bag. She took a slug of the vodka straight from the bottle then poured the rest into an empty milk carton and stuck it in the freezer.
She makes love to her husband. Imagines herself to be a corpse, her cunt the last fading warmth. Pretends to orgasm as he shudders and sputters inside of her. He rolls over, falls asleep. When he begins to snore she creeps to the washroom. Cleans herself out with a bleach solution. If it does damage to her, all the better. So long as nothing crawls out in nine months.
She reads the news. Rape. Murder. Infanticide. Drowned in a tub. Left in a hot car. Forgotten at home. Kept in a cage. A child called It. She reads and empathizes with the troubled women, those poor beasts called mothers.
“I sure see a lot of you, lady.”
“I pay, don’t I?”
“Yes, you sure do.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“No problem. Just an observation.”
She takes the bag and heads inside. Jack’s lying still where she left him. His tiny chest raising and lowering. She watches for a moment. Teeth grinding. In three steps she’s leaning above him. Gulps down air. Screams, a maddened half-wheeze guttural expulsion.
Leaving him crying, she heads into the kitchen to prepare a drink.
“It’s the damnedest thing,” David says.
She nods along, not hearing his words. There’s a piece of vegan meat stuck in his teeth. It’s mesmerizing. She wants to tell him to shut the fuck up and get a toothpick, but the effort that would take is beyond her.
“Are you even listening?”
He’s staring at her with an expression she can’t read. Anger? Worry? Disgust?
“Sorry.” She manages not to slur. “I’m exhausted. Baby Jack was a lot today.”
He nods. Sagely.
That explains everything.
She stands at the sink pouring vodka into a baby bottle. Attaches the cap. Sets it aside. Then she mixes Jack’s and brings it out to him. Thanks god every day since he’s stopped breast feeding. The memories of those toothless gums slobbering against her nipples still haunt her.
She holds him on her lap and shoves the bottle at him. He latches on and tries to take it from her hands. She pins his arms behind his back with one hand and shakes the bottle in his mouth vigorously.
This is her job. Her only job now. This is her life. These few rooms. The park down the street and the coffee shop around the corner.
She takes Jack to the park. Puts him in the infant swing. Pushes and pushes until he’s got enough momentum to keep going. He babbles joyously, reaching untold heights, wind whipping pleasurably, his sparse hair blowing behind and then ahead of him.
All she needs is five minutes. The coffee shop is right around the corner. She walks fast, orders quickly. Her legs hurt. Her back aches. She sits and sips at her cappuccino for a moment before making the return trip.
The swing is empty. A few children play on the climbers, the slide.
But not Jack.
She sits in the interrogation room.
“You’re not under suspicion,” the lady cop sat across from her repeats. It’s a lie, and she knows as much. But she’s done nothing wrong.
David sleeps on the couch. He masturbates in the bathroom, tries to hide the evidence.
For the first time in ages, she sleeps soundly.
They found the body in the trash. Buried under moldy pizza boxes and discarded pornography.
She first hears about it at work. A conversation between co-workers. They don’t realize it’s hers until later and their embarrassment shows alongside their pity. Management calls her into a meeting and gives her two weeks paid leave.
She stands next to the tiny coffin as people come up and shake her hand, offer condolences. David stands on the other side. They don’t speak. They don’t make eye contact. He wails as the tiny package is lowered into the earth.
She avoids the reception, having made a few comments about how sick she feels. Her sister drives her home.
“I just want to be alone right now,” she says as she leaves the car. “I’ll call you.”
She unlocks the apartment door and steps inside, a great weight lifted from her shoulders.
Discover more from Writing Darkness
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.