Lineage with carnage, leaving a rack and ruin quake. The cradle empty. Windows broken. Blue lights in the dark. Red lights in the dark. Multiple sources. I counted the days till it happened from the dice. There is only one way, wheezing of butane, air duster, jerry cans of gasoline, paint, and so on.
One rectangle of light comes through the shape of the window and onto the dark of the wall, overlapped by an offset of another position of light from outside, casting it similarly from a different-colored source. One light red, and another is blue. Lights of differing colors are squared and scattered. The blinds above it break through the same. Sirens heard.
Bloody butane coughs out and onto the tile canvas between my legs. Why is there a baby crying? The baby is gone.
The light outside the door breaks through the cracks. The darkness broken by the yellow from the hall. Do they want to come after me for what I know?
Organ bounce float ways, thuddering slapstick cranks alongside shafting throat perches. Dissonance of high-pitch siren wails. Pale sweat brows and falling face droops.
Praise the best mistake I ever made. Worth a child’s neglect and perched throat… Rotting under the bathroom floor like the smell of dead shit. Anything to know the feeling.
I only ever wanted a child.
“This is necessary, for the angels; the Antichrist’s soul is condemned in the floorboards now.”
The mother replies, “I become the Antichrist by doing this.”
The woman is encompassed in dark by swirling voices.
The first spirit says, “God is severance of the waste; and God severed.”
The second spirit tells, “The slit arms spoke truly of a demon in the cradle.”
The last spirit speaks, “The other spirits are demons, so kill yourself.”
The woman thinks for a moment, quiet, in dry blood over her chin. Her heart flutters in a clammy panic.
The mother says in a shaking, swinging voice, “You stole what cannot be replaced…”
Her teeth feel an itch. Wobbles in the room sing a neon swaying. There are stars beginning to shine from the textured white ceiling, glimmering with many points of a night painting or theater. There is a baby hanging by a single string, of porcelain, with empty eyes that shine even brighter in reflection at the crescent of the blackest pupils. The angel toy looks just like her son, dressed in white wings.
The mother tries to speak, but mutters follow from drooling. Her heart is the odd meter, dragging her beats per fate. The doll is stuck with a crooked smile forced, and no saying. Tears roll down her face as the child is nothing but imitation quiet. The doll’s eyes cry the same, the same pattern of tears rolling over its fake, pale, rosy cheeks, but of bloody lamb tears.
The cries of her baby are heard like a faraway tape recording. From hearing this: the mother is lined in a flattened tone of blank covers across her face. God cuts the string over her body, and her head and heart drop like dead puppet weight. Her child’s string cuts at the same time, and the doll thuds the ground. The tape sound ends abruptly with the impact.
This baby wasn’t any normal baby, they were possessed.