THE BABY by Sally-Anne Wilkinson


Here’s my latest contribution to the Storgy short story magazine.

THE BABY

by

Sally-Anne Wilkinson

typewriter love

If I had a previous life, it’s gone.  All I know is, the baby won’t stop crying.  His wails pierce through walls, as though they’re made of eggshell.  His lungs squall for hours, leeching the oxygen, and leave nothing for me.  Some days it’s hard to gather strength to get out of bed, climb downstairs, or even lift my arms to wash my hair.

Day and night, the baby feeds, sucking me dry.  With each feed, my skin hangs off my bones; bags deepen under my eyes.  There’s a vertical crease forming between my eyebrows, and a small blood vessel in the inner corner of each eye pollutes the whiteness.  Some days I see the dark hollows of my eye sockets and wonder if Halloween is a daily event.

When the baby arrived, Jonah abandoned me for the spare room. The baby is always latched…

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