Everyday it gets harder and harder to deal with my own son. I would call it postpartum depression but seeing how he has already reached the age of 7 I think it’s a little bit past that point. As a divorced mom it has been hard to care for him as he spent every weekend with his father, but that was never the reason either. At first it was just an odd feeling, the shivers dancing across my arms as I went to feed him, or my slight flinches as he reaches out to me.
I always thought that it was my fault, I was mistreating my own son by thinking of his beady eyes to those of a demon. But one day it all changed, and I finally knew that I had birthed Lucifer.
My son was playing out in the yard as I did the housework after a long shift per usual. The sun shown through the kitchen window and gleamed across the plates I washed. I couldn’t quite see my son from the kitchen window since he was playing in the side yard, but his constant laughter had peeked my interest.
I never heard him laugh very much, he had always been very monotonous and barely had any expressions lacing his features. Curious, I walked out the back door and out to the side yard. I felt uneasy at the giggling, taking a deep breath as I stopped dead in my tracks at the sight before me.
There sat my son and our inside/outside cat, laying presumably dead in a pool of blood. My son had a rock in his hands, and I knew immediately what had happened. I screamed at him, telling him to get away, shoving him away from Ms. Blacky as I felt her limp body.
I was to into my emotions and pouring tears to even think about my son, and he returned back to his room. After that I had a very long and thorough discussion on ethics and morals. I thought everything was fine until a few years later.
At this time he still had a tendency to lean towards the wrong ethics and morals, and this time he did something irreversible. He had begun to talk back often and show a lot of disrespect towards me, so I grounded him from his toys and the tv. I thought this would make him learn to listen to me, but I later found out that I was severely wrong when night approached.
It was a long and stressful day with work and I had fallen asleep rather quickly. I felt myself stir from my sleep, almost like something was urging me to wake up. Call it woman’s intuition, but when I opened my eyes and saw my son towering over me I knew that he was going to hurt me. Just like when he had hurt Ms. Blacky with the rock, but this time he had a knife.
My pulse quickened as I pushed the covers off of myself, scrambling to avoid my son’s first swing. My body convulsed with fear as I slid off the side of the bed, slamming my head against the floor. I went to push myself up but got entangled by blankets, and suddenly he was before me. He was no longer the 10 year old boy I had raised, but a large demon that had come to end me.
His short arm span wasn’t enough to reach me as he swung, and an easy kick to the stomach sent him flying. I ran pass him and into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I called 911, and explained the situation between my sobs. I shook the entire time waiting for them to get there, not even realizing that I had been cut across the arm and was now bleeding. I knew then that I would have died if I hadn’t woken up.
The police took him, he was put in severe therapy and his father took him in completely. It’s been years and I haven’t seen him, as I refuse to make contact with the demon in my son’s body. But I know. He’ll come back one day. Call it woman’s intuition. I shake at the memories every time I go to bed, my pistol always ready by my side. Next time he comes, one of us won’t miss.