1971
She heard him crying in the other room.
Howling really. A guttural sort of cry that only a baby is capable of.
She rushed into the nursery but found the bed empty.
A dizziness overtook her. She held her hands to her temples.
She’d imagined it.
Again. Surely.
Jeremiah had died of Cot Death at 4 months old.
And what was that stench? Was it the smell of a bad mother?
She left and swiftly closed the door.
She had to stop going in there.
She shook two pills from the opaque bottle and swallowed them down without water.
Now she could rest.
She did a twirl in the mirror and fancied herself a nanny. She was off to the park.
But, God, she couldn’t remember why…
There must be a reason, though, surely.
She saw him waddling around. Smiling. Bright blue eyes like Jeremiah had.
She glanced towards his nanny; she was occupied with gossip.
She touched his nose. Felt his warm face. He giggled.
She sighed.
She missed Jeremiah so very much.
A full picture on the front cover. A blue-eyed baby. It made her cry. She didn’t have to read it to know that the baby was missing.
She had to stop thinking of Jeremiah so much.
Yes. This world was too cruel for Jeremiah. It was a justice that he was taken so soon.
She kept Jeremiah’s things in the closet.
The little bonnets. The wooden horse. The cloths for cleaning.
She’d closed it up, that closet. Hadn’t been in it since the day he passed.
It wasn’t meant for her now.
Nothing was meant for her now.
But it did stink though. It smelled of failed dreams and hopelessness.
She swore she could see a fly buzzing around the little crack where the door met the carpeted floor.
Cries. Swift, but certain.
She rushed into the room.
A rerun of the last time.
An empty crib. A stench. A throbbing pain in her temples.
The opaque bottle, again. The pills struggling down her dry throat.
In a moment of brief clarity, she hinted at what she’d done.
She opened the closet door slowly.
The horror of it shook her to her core.
The smell was so rotten that she vomited upon her skirt.
She shouted for Jeremiah.
Was it really the cot death? Or was it her all along?
She gazed upon several sets of blue eyes, all in a state of decomposition.
A writhing behind one of the eyelids caused it to rattle a bit. It gave off the vague appearance of life.
The bodies. The tiny lifeless bodies. Tossed in this closet to rot.
To rot on the cloth. To rot like Jeremiah had done.
They all resembled Jeremiah.
Oh, so much. Oh, so cold.
She shook the corpses.
Screaming. Internal.
She needed the bottle, the opaque bottle.
She needed the pain in her head.
She needed to close this door and forget what she’d done.