Mother of All Evil

I hated him from the first second I laid eyes on him. 

Thirteen hours of grueling labor and nine months of pregnancy and this was my prize. A shrieking, ugly, detestable baby. The greatest, most unbearable pain of my life was all for this? If I could turn back the clock and stop this pregnancy, I would in a heartbeat.

I lay crumpled on the hospital bed, feeling relieved that it was over but at the same time, a dense sense of dread bearing down on me. Dread for the next eighteen years that I have to sacrifice for this creature.

The harsh overhead lights cast a sickly hue over the room and despite my exhaustion, all I could think about was leaving. The doctor ushered to my side, carefully holding the baby as he gestured for me to take it. I felt waves of nausea pass over me at the mere idea, I had been carrying this thing for nine months, and now he expects me to hold it immediately after birth. I contemplated slapping him right across his smug face. The doctor seemed to have enough sense to pick up on my opposition and placed him in my husband’s arms.

Since he violently exited me, the baby had been nonstop crying. His wails echoed off the walls like gunshots in my head and I only wished for quiet. What I got was ear-splitting whines the whole drive home. I felt so overwhelmed that I would've gladly welcomed a fatal car accident at that moment.

 I do not possess a motherly bone in my body, and yet there had been this parasite leeching off of me, my body. It felt like the most cruel and grotesque violation that could ever have been inflicted upon me. It was supposed to be my body and my body alone.

Call me selfish, but I could never enjoy anything about my pregnancy. I’m sure if I had wanted it in the first place, things would be different. Maybe I would be like those pregnant women who held their belly endearingly, gazing down upon it like the greatest gift to the Earth was nestled right inside their used and abused womb. But this baby was no gift, he was the greatest burden to have ever been bestowed unto me. His entrance into this world marked the exit of Margo, my identity.

Nowadays, when people talk to me, I feel as though they’re seeing straight through me, a hollow vessel once known as Margo. I am no longer myself, I’m Mom, and I resent that so deeply I feel a searing hate coursing through my blood. Not just for the baby, but for my husband too. 

My half-wit, belligerent, pathetic excuse for a husband, Adam. When we first started dating I knew he would be the man I would marry. Adam had something that the other men didn’t, a complete, utter lack of care and attentiveness for anything I said or did. This suited me just fine, I didn’t want a lover, I wanted a provider that would free me from any real responsibility. That was the unspoken deal and this baby broke that.

He was the one who wanted a baby. So I, ignorantly had been taking faulty birth control pills due to this manipulative S.O.B. His sperm may as well have been cyanide to me.

It’s doubtful he would’ve wanted a baby if his body was the one to be invaded and conquered by a stranger because that’s what that god-forsaken baby is, a stranger. I haven’t been able to look Adam in the eyes or have a civil conversation since finding out I was pregnant. Now, I felt such a strong hate for him that I’m convinced no human has ever hated anyone as deeply.

Every time he’d try and get me excited for the baby and buy me meaningless gifts like matching mommy and me pajamas, I only turned my head and scoffed.

Adam thinks that I am exclusively self-serving and has referred to me as a narcissist multiple times. I don’t disagree, and he knew that when he married me. If he thinks that of me, then why the hell would he trick me into being the mother of his child? What a boneheaded Neanderthal! 

I got thrown a late baby shower today and hated every second of it. I would appreciate the thought that went into it, but it feels like the thought was not for me, but for the baby. Every time someone referred to me as Mom instead of Margo I felt more pieces of myself floating away. I sat on the couch like a translucent ghost, because to me, Mom means nothing. I am now nothing.

Everyone cooed over him and took turns holding the crying baby. With every cry, I heard unbearably loud gunshots ringing in my head. I felt like I was in a war zone and yet every woman around seemed perfectly calm.

The most enthusiastic of them all, my sister Daisy, rocked him back and forth while uttering that disgusting baby talk. I have never been fond of her, she is the embodiment of perfect femininity. Proportionately sized like a goddamn Polly Pocket, nurturing, soft, and most of all, everything I can never be. I glanced at her and saw love in her gaze towards the baby. Moments later, he stopped crying. That silence I so desperately longed for had finally arrived and yet all I felt was pure envy. How dare that baby halt his deafening complaints for Daisy and shriek forever to me. I had been the one to put him on this Earth in the first place. I resisted the urge to tell her to take him home with her, never to be seen by me again.

Through gritted teeth, I only said “Good for you.” 

That night I laid awake fixated on the ceiling, feeling shell-shocked. The baby’s weeping had progressed to a roaring scream and I refused to go to him. I feared if I did, I’d do something I couldn’t take back.

The gunshots rang through my head for what felt like the thousandth hour in a row and I began to feel hysterical. Adam was peacefully asleep with no care in the world for what that baby did, how predictable.

The man who lay sound asleep next to me and the baby that shrieked down the hall had robbed me of myself. Ruined my body, took my identity, and forcefully dragged me into this life I never wanted to live, that's murder.

My bloodshot eyes peered at the closet door and I contemplated who would have to pay for this crime. The baby, for the never-ending disturbance he was; or, my idiot husband who was the reason the baby existed in the first place. I was deceived and for that, he must pay hell.

My head was swimming with resounding shots as I felt a gravitational pull towards the closet.

It was too loud. I couldn’t think straight.

BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG.

How could such a small being’s cries be so loud?

BANG, BANG, BANG.

I can’t do this anymore.

BANG, BANG, BANG.

I can’t live like this and someone has to die.

BANG, BANG, BANG. 

At that moment, I finally understood my mother. The woman who never had an ounce of love to give. I was her parasite, the very being that stripped her of her identity and then had the gall to expect more. Clothes, food, shelter, complete financial support, and worst of all, love. A mother is expected to provide undying, unconditional love, something my mother nor I, would ever be capable of. Purely transactional “love” was all we had to give and motherhood would never fit us. She may have shaped me into the cold-blooded woman I am today, but what choice did she have? Women like us could never raise a decent human being. I let go of all the resentment I felt towards her and understood what I had to do. 

My quivering hand twisted the doorknob, opening the portal to the sinister, yet merciful act I must complete. My hand soon grasped the smooth steel of what was my way out.

I felt weightless, floating through the hallway. The closer I got to the nursery the louder the gunshots in my head became.

BANG, BANG, BANG.

I crept into his room and the feeling of weightlessness faded into an immense pressure. My hand hardened into lead, seemingly protesting the forbidden act I’d soon commit. The shots continued thundering off, and I had to fire back.

As I drew the gun from my pocket, I glided towards the ceiling and saw her below me. My mind and body had severed from one another, and I became a spectator to this horrific event. This baby could never grow up to be someone worth being, and though I hate him, I have convinced myself I’m sparing him from a loveless life akin to mine and my mother’s.  

I am my mother’s child, but I will not make the same mistake she did. I watched her from above as Mom’s finger slithered to the trigger, preparing to become the executioner of innocence and noise. 

BANG.

And just like that, it was quiet, and I was Margo.