My Sweet Baby

My sweet baby, all fresh and pure.

I seen nothing sweeter, than my babe before

I will hold you proudly, till you can walk strong

Then my little babe, will be gone, a strong man

And then this sweet mother, will rejoice for so long.

         Aged arms caressed a soft child as the song was hummed with a raspy voice. The child slumbered as his mother slowly put him down into the crib. Sunlight streamed into the room, flooding the wooden rocking chairs, the body size mirror, and the sleeping babe in a golden warmth.

         The woman, who had graying hair and soft facial features walked slowly around the room, her white sundress flowing behind her. She had her right arm over her stomach, and her left elbow on top of that. Her hand reached up towards her mouth. Three fingers were put on her lips and the pinkie and thumb crossed over the palm and touched softly. As she walked around, she touched each and every single toy that were on the small dressers.

         Smiling, she turned back to the crib and walked over gently. The babe was silent, still sleeping.  Putting her three fingers on the baby's forehead, she rubbed them up to the top of his head. She was silent as she stared at this baby. This was her baby, her last one; little Richard. She loved that name. That was the name of her first born--the one that had died when he was two months old. Since then, she had had three other children.

         Straightening, she turned and went out of the room. She grabbed a small book from the bookshelf in the hallway and headed towards the kitchen. Putting the book on the oak table, she sat down; the floorboards of the old home creaking. The room was dusty, and most of the kitchen was untouched, almost stuck in a time long ago. As she sat, her eyes washed over the room. Something in her stirred. Something didn't feel right. It was untouched. She remembered dusting it yesterday. She had dusted it yesterday. And swept the floor, and scrubbed the cabinets.  Shrugging it off, she opened the book, which was a photo album. Her mind was whisked away into the yellowing pictures before her. 

         Smiling faces, birthday parties, and old pictures of the family covered the sticky pages that cracked and popped gently when they were turned. She looked at each one. One was of a young boy with blonde hair and big eyes. He had only a diaper on. She giggled, for this was her her Little Richard. The second child was a little young girl. She wore a little white dress, and held a small teddy bear; Little Ana. The woman frowned. Where was little Ana now? She didn't remember seeing her around. She turned to a different page, and another little girl smiled up at her. Little Emma. Again another frown and again another child.  This one was Little Donald. As she turned the page again, her heart rate had started to race. Where were these kids?

         She stopped on a picture; a cold hand clenched her heart and let out a loud gasp. She pushed the book off the table and stood, her breathing becoming shallow. The photo album flopped to the ground with a sharp thud, the terrible picture lying face down in the dust that covered the floors. Two police officers stood in this picture with body bags and a woman who resembled too much of her was handcuffed; bloody and angry. 

Running towards the baby's room, she rushed in and darted for the crib. Grabbing the railing, she looked down only to let out a raspy scream. Instead of a baby, was a thing of rotting flesh and vile smelling decay. The mother felt her hands and body go numb. Shakily, she looked down at her hands, dried blood covered every inch of them. Looking down, she eyed her clothing which were covered with the crimson sin.  She noticed more coming from the hallway. Frantically, she followed the bloody trail back into the kitchen. Her photo album still laid face down but everything had changed. Dishes were all over the floor, the table was overturned, fridge door was open, and three little children lay dead on the ground, bathing in crimson puddles. A knife lay within them.

         The mother tried to scream, but only an agonizing squeak came out. Shaking her head and waving her hands, she started to back up only to fumble and trip over something solid and stiff.  Looking at it, fear filled her eyes. There she saw her own body lying, a gun in one hand, and a note in the other. Shakily, she picked up the note and read it. The words of her sweet lullaby rang out like white noise.  Throwing it down in fear, she jumped to her feet and rushed back to the baby's room. Throwing herself into the corner, she covered her face and sobbed. Rocking back and forth, she remembered. In her pain and agony, she remembered everything.

         She walked into the living room where her three children lied; they were watching Saturday morning cartoons. All morning she had been drinking and her own self-control was lower than low today. She hadn't taken her medication yet—they angered her. She hadn't even showered—water was always too hot.  She hadn't done anything. Walking into the kitchen she grabbed a plate, and out of nowhere threw it on the ground. Looking around, her vision started to fade in and out. A shrill voice of a child cried out from the back of the house. This crying made her head hurt, and she wanted it to stop. She went down the hallway and into the baby's room. The baby screamed some more and squirmed around in the crib. That angered her even more. Looking around she tried to find a way to make the baby stop, but finding nothing she just stared at it. It screamed again, and again, and then, she lunged. She put her large hands around the child's neck and squeezed, yelling and begging for it to stop.

         After the child abruptly stopped, the mother backed away. The baby's mouth was covered in blood, and so were her hands. But that didn't stop her outrage. She ran down the hallway and into the kitchen where she hastily had taken a knife from the drawer, it's silver glinting in the dim light that shone through the window. Her other three children fumbled to their feet, letting out gasps of terror as their mother ran into the living room, her eyes wide and her knuckles white as she clenched the knife.   She ran towards them, making them run to the kitchen in an attempt to get away from her. Unfortunately, she was able to grab Donald. He screamed and cried, but his mother took no heed to him, and stabbed him in the chest three times. Blood squirted and landed on the wooden floor, turning the coppery brown to a velvety red.

         Her other children screamed and hid in a corner. Their mother stared at them, eyeing up each child. The T.V was just a constant drone in the back of her mind as she pointed to Ana, beckoning for her to come. Ana shook her head and shrunk down further into the corner, praying that she disappear from this nightmare.  Emma stared at her little brother's dead body. The mother got angry again and tried to demand her forward, her voice high and startling. This time Ana screamed, "No!”

         The mother swore and lunged forward, throwing Emma out of the way and grabbing Ana, stabbing her three times. More blood squirted, landing all over the walls and onto Emma. Emma fell to the ground sobbing and crying, "Mommy no! Please! No!" But of course the mother grabbed Emma and stabbed her three times. The screaming hurt her head.  After the blood had sprouted from her daughter's stomach, the mother raced around the kitchen destroying everything in her rage. She flipped over the table and started to throw the dishes out of the cupboards. She opened the fridge and threw all the food around. After she had stopped, the mother looked around. She dropped the knife and sobbed herself. With loud gasps and moans of distress and anguish, she walked to her room where a gun was hidden in the top drawer of her dresser.  Sitting on the bed, she cried and screamed, punching the mattress.

         After an hour or so of crying she had grabbed the gun and had walked to the kitchen—a note in her hand. Carefully, she dragged her precious babies out of the living room and placed  them in the kitchen. They laid before the overturned table. One last meal with her babies, she decided. Standing over them, she carefully placed one bullet into the barrel of the gun. Looking into the black hole of her salvation, she began to sing; her finger on the trigger. 

My sweet baby, all fresh and pure.

I seen nothing sweeter, than my babe before

I will hold you proudly, till you can walk strong

Then my little babe, will be gone, a strong man

And then this sweet mother, will rejoice for so long.

POP

The gun did not hurt her head.