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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
A horror story; a mother faces her worst fear.

Submitted: October 13, 2018

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Submitted: October 13, 2018



Not long after my husband left for work, I was in the kitchen rinsing out sippy cups when I heard a few thuds from upstairs. I stopped what I was doing and ran out of the room, past the dining table with the remnants of breakfast still in its place. I sprinted up the steps and frantically searched every room with adrenaline pumping through my veins. I ran to the last room at the end of the hall, whipped open the barely closed door and froze. The first thing I saw was blood, and that alone caused my mind to unfurl into a crazed panicbut it was not my baby’s blood that I saw. A small, contorted mess of flesh and fur lay in the center of the room, and my toddler was sitting a few inches away from it with his eyes looking up at me and his lips curled into a smile.


I didn’t know how to process the scene. In a weird way, I had a bit of relief flush over me when I realized my baby wasn’t hurt. Yet, knowing that the thing beside my baby was once the living kitten we had brought home only a week before, I was not at ease. I came to a lot of strange conclusions in that second. Maybe the cat had jumped from the dresser and died from the landing? I thought to myself, Maybe the kitten had eaten something it shouldn’t have and a strange chemical reaction caused it to die? Maybe it had somehow done this to itself? But all those thoughts were just trying to stall me from reaching the unavoidable truth: my child killed our pet.


I then faced another layer of questions. I wondered to myself if it was just an accident or if the kitten had provoked him somehow. I stood there and thought while he was just sitting in the room, looking at me, unashamed, with blood drooling from his fingers. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do and, as I tried to force myself to do anything, I was distracted by the sound of the kitchen tap still running downstairs.


I grabbed my baby and brought him down with me. He left red stains all over my clothes as I turned off the running water and took him into the bathroom. Overwhelmed by the smell of rust, I cleaned him up as quick as I could. As I did, I observed him, focusing on his facial features and trying to understand what was going on inside that little head of his. Despite his age, he could only speak in unintelligible words. Part of me wished I could’ve talked with him, and another part of me was glad that I couldn’t. Strange streams of thoughts like that formed in my head as I kept on trying to figure out the best course of action. I finished washing him and rubbed the towel into his skin, wiping the blood from his hands.


I knew what his father would say. He had been insisting that something was wrong with our child for months, but I always defended my baby. Being his mother, that was my most important job: to speak up for someone who can’t even speak for themselves. I knew what my husband would do. He’d take our baby to some shrink and that shrink would pump our kid full of pills to try to fix him. Then that same shrink would blame us for raising him wrong and then my husband would blame me for it and then everyone, for the rest of my baby’s life, would treat him like a monster in the making. I knew my baby wasn’t a monster. I knew that there was good in him. I didn’t know why he did what he did, but I knew that it wasn’t his fault.


I knew what I had to do. I gave my child a stern warning and then went upstairs. I took care of the mess; I buried the corpse in our backyard. I threw away my dirty clothes along with everything else that was covered in blood. After that, I finished cleaning the dishes from this morning. When my husband came home, I told him that the cat had slipped past me when I opened the door to get the mail. “I tried to chase after him,” I said, “but I didn’t want to leave our baby all by himself.” He went out to look for the cat. While he was gone, I deleted the pediatric psychiatrist numberthe one he had asked our doctor forfrom his phone. He came back, he grieved and I comforted him by telling him that our baby boy hadn’t gotten into any trouble all day.


I don’t regret what I did, not even for a second. I did it because I know my baby wasn’t the problem. It was probably the cat’s fault; maybe we just won’t get any more pets and then everything will be fine. I’m his mother; I know my baby better than anyone else. I know he’s not a monster. I know he’s healthy and normal and good. He could never do something like that again. I know he would never do something like that again.

© Copyright 2019 Franklin Rayeski. All rights reserved.

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