"Mommy, Mommy," I hear it crying.
It's been screaming for hours and it won't shut the fuck up. The milk it wants is in front of me, along with some cheap vodka and Kahlua. I mix another White Russian, slam it down. I'm not drunk enough.
The screaming stops. Now the demons come out to play. "MOMMY," it says again, its voice barbed wire and mutilated dogs. The crib creaks and it's climbing out. Coming for me.
I look down. Rosary. Bible. Knife. Gun. Nothing's worked. Each time it eats more of me.
"BREAST, MOMMY. BREAST." The trailer creaks with each step. The air stinks with sulfur and shit. I vomit up a drink or two, manage to catch it in the glass.
"BREAST, MOMMY, OR ANOTHER DIES. THAT WAS THE DEAL." Yeah. It could breastfeed, or it'd kill another child in daycare tomorrow. Hell of a deal, right? The deal I made with the demon in the skin of my son.
Except that breastfeeding the monster was like having leeches on my soul. It was eating everything good in me. Turning me into it.
Climbing into my lap now. My son's face, only not. Red. Twisted. All mouth, no eyes. It pulls at my shirt.
"Deal with this," I say, pouring the alcoholic vomit onto its face. It howls. The rugs ooze pus and the walls bleed.
I pick it up, put it in my son's high chair, strap it in. I empty the vodka over it.
Then I find a match.
The Fine Print
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