Postpartum

Ever since this thing has come out of me, I feel like my chest is going to explode. My heart is constantly slamming against my chest, my stomach is curled up in knots, and every hour or so I feel the need to sprint to the bathroom, only to gag up bile. It's not like I don't love the child, the child is fine.... It's just, not right. When I look into my newborn baby's eyes, I feel something dark peering back at me.

It has only been a week since I brought the child home from the hospital, but already I find myself peering into its cold, coal like eyes, and find myself suppressing a shiver. On this particular evening, I was trying to make the child smile, or laugh or just show any form of human emotion... and failing miserably. It was only when I pressed a kiss to the tip of its nose that I noticed its tiny, black veins hidden behind its papery, pale skin. My stomach dropped. No, it felt as if I had jumped off a plane with no parachute. My palms began to clam up. I back away, slowly, from the thing. It is ridiculous. I KNOW that it is ridiculous, but I find myself gently placing the child in its crib, hoping that I am just sleep deprived and see some sort of hallucination. Never did I imagine I would hope to be seeing hallucinations, but the alternative is something I don't even want, nay, can’t process.

After watching the child fall asleep, I stumbled to my room. It is times like these I wish I had someone to share the burden of the child with... I trod to the bathroom adjacent to my room and stare at my reflection. What I see is something ungodly, something straight from the bowels of Hell itself. The skin against my face has been stretched thin, making it look as if my cheekbones had been chiseled and knife-like; my once ocean blue eyes were milky, like the eyes of old people. Except, when I switch my gaze from my wrinkled, thin face, I see something even more horrifying.

My hand gingerly reached up to stroke my hair... at least what is left of it. Before the child, I had long, thick, raven black hair. But now, it is as white as snow and clumps of it hang for dear life on my shirt. I gasp, my eyes watering. I hope, I pray that this is just another hallucination. I am just exhausted. I just need some sleep. I whisper this to myself like it is a mantra, my lifeline to sanity.

I decide to take a warm bath. Something to help lull me to sleep. I turn away from the mirror, I can't bear to see that, tha-, that stranger peering at me any longer. As I strip my clothes off my thin body, I notice a couple things. First, my fingernails had fallen off, leaving only stubs of nail at the base of my thin fingers. I follow that gaze to my hands, wrinkled and gray. No, I whisper to myself over, and over, and over again. I am seeing things. No matter how much I tell myself this, I feel the familiar bile rising in my throat, scorching fire in its path. I sprint as fast as my decrepit body will allow me. I make it just on time, watching a mixture of blood and acid settle into the bowl of the toilet. I gasp as I cradle my head between my bony thighs. Hyperventilating, I realize a dull ache in the breasts. I somehow find the strength to rise from the fetal position on the cold, marble floor and pull my shirt over my head, ripping out pieces of my thin hair as the fabric catches. I gather whatever strength, whatever sanity remains and turn towards the mirror.

As I take in my reflection, I vaguely hear someone screaming in the background. It is only when I notice my throat has begun to ache that I realize it was me. Tears spring to my eyes as I take in my breasts; marred with fresh cuts and clotting blood and my blackened nipples, similar to the color of the veins I had found on the child. I run a shaking hand over them and recoil at the ice cold temperature that greets my bony fingers. I teared my eyes away from the monstrous woman who stared back at me and pulled my shirt back over my torso, as if I could hide the evidence. I fill my aching lungs with fresh air and begin my slow walk to the child's nursery. When I step in, I see it; suckling its thumb as it dozes peacefully. I pad over to the bright yellow pillow resting on the rocking chair and stealthily pick it up. I gather my wits, and staring at the child one last time, I press a kiss to its cold, hard forehead as I lower the pillow over its sleeping form. It doesn't take as long as I thought it would for the thing to stop moving. The child had barely cried, barely moved. I felt something in my soul begin to lighten as I realized that it was gone and I was safe; free from the very thing that marked my body. My lips slowly began to turn up as I glided back to the bathroom; to the mirror. I watched in horror as I saw my skin was glowing, full. My once milky eyes were back to the ocean blue I was used to, my thick hair flowing down my back in its original, raven black. I lifted up my shirt to inspect my breasts and saw the cuts had faded and my nipples had returned back to its normal pink. Shock and dread flooded into my body, stronger than the horror of my earlier realization. I rushed from the bathroom, from my reflection. As I darted into the child's room, I watched, waiting for the child to take a breath, smile, anything. But it didn’t. The child laid upon the mattress of the crib, unmoving like a statue. 

My breath began to stutter in my throat, and soon I was gasping for air as I looked upon my baby; my baby with glowing, healthy skin. My baby with clear blue eyes. My baby without the black veins I swore I saw earlier. I stumble forward towards my child, gripping her lifeless body as I rock back and forth, barely noticing the agonizing screeches coming from deep within. I killed my baby.