B.S - Inspired by Frankie Teardrop. Flames, outpourings, and large sums of monetary donations welcome.
The crib was a faux white wood affair that he had picked out with her at the eve of her pregnancy. It is, in reality, off white plastic, now chipped and dirtied after months of use. The bundle inside, though, is what interests him. An angelic months old child, small hands with their barely-there fingers fisting handfuls of blue Wal-Mart fleece. He stares, transfixed. After months, it has yet to sink in that it, this thing, this object, could be his. He reaches out, stroking the halo of plate hair, coaxing strands away from the sleeping face. For a moment, he forgets. Then, he remembers. Remembers the bills spilling from the mailbox. Remembers the disdainful glances cast at the cash register as he pulls out the never- enough food stamps. Remembers the fridge, the only pristine, barely used object in the house. He pulls out the object from the worn lining of his threadbare coat, weighing it in the palm of his hand, eyes never leaving the sleeping figure. He runs his fingers over the smooth valley of the trigger, the crevices of the barrel, the smooth inside rim. His touch is tender, suited more for the bedroom than for the valley of death, for this object, it could stop the future in its tracks. All a lover could do was to sprout a child. He turns now, to the subject of his inner tirade, leading the cold barrel down it's oh - so - fragile scalp, trailing down to a mottled temple, taking care not to wake it. The toddler stirs in its sleep, eyes shifting slightly beneath their lids. He ignores it, drawing wide arcs with the barrel across its cheek, circling a single indent, a valley in the wide expanse of soft cheek. He jerks back upwards with renewed resolve. A fresh wave of unbridled rage. He pulls the trigger with not but a moment's hesitation, drinking in the muted screams of the half awake infant with closed eyes, expression akin to that when sampling a fine wine. Within moments, the cherubic body is left lifeless. An empty vessel. A useless husk. Purple red tissue is exposed at the temple, rivulets of blood following the same lazy path traced by him only moments before, staining the cheap fleece. He intercepts one of the trails, smearing it across its cheek, admiring the contrast of red against white with a conflicted smile. It was, after all, a blush to die for.