What I Write
Good grief if Counselor Baxter saw Billy’s little hammer. That woman and her fake caring voice. Is that the hammer, is that blood? Really, the nag was nothing more than a state licensed babysitter. Sarah hugged two-year old Billy in the crook of her arm and leaned from the chair. Therapy for a two-year old? She nudged the hammer back under the diapers in the tote. Billy’s pink lips opened, purring, and she could not resist. She sat up, kissing his milky smelling cheek with a smacking sound. No one was turning her son into a freak.
Henry’s chair was squeaking. He had uncrossed his long legs and pulled a stick of gum from his pocket. That spicy sweet cologne was the one she gave him for Christmas. Billy had his father’s looks. Long lashes, dark eyes. Thank God the resemblance stopped there.
“Sarah,” Henry unwrapped the gum, “we do this, and Billy may even go to college.”
She arranged the blanket over Billy, unfolding, tucking. What did college have to do with therapy? As parents, they should be celebrating. Billy showed the mouse who was boss, took after his mum and dad, took care of business. But what did Henry do?
She stuck her nose in the air. “Billy needs us, not hormone therapy. Who cares about a rat?”
Gum chewing Henry gazed away.
Sarah tucked a corner of the blanket under Billy’s socked feet. The room was dull as rock but Henry was staring from empty desk to white walls. He was up to no good. Just like him, plotting ahead. She squared her shoulders. Well, he had taught her well. She was ready for him, whatever else he had in mind.
The door slid open. A rush of distant voices rushed into the room and subsided.
“Good morning.” Baxter’s double wide hips waddled across the room. She sat across the table. Her tiny eyes roamed over Henry, Sarah, then rested over Billy. She brought out a palm-sized computer from her pocket. “Let’s get to business, shall we? Mr and Mrs Smithers, this second DNA-mapping confirms that Billy’s tendencies come from…” she pursed her lips, “let’s say the mouse incident confirms what we can expect from Billy in future, unless we correct–unless we do something about it right now.”
Henry was embarrassing. He fixated on the woman like he had a crush on her.
The clacking was Baxter tapping the computer screen. “Good news, the best news,” her smile exposed too many teeth, “is qualification. Insurance pays for HAT, not a penny out of your pocket, and that’s why you are here. Both parents must consent. I’m so glad—”
Sarah stood, chin up, Billy clamped to her chest. So much fun she could be enjoying with Billy. Spring in the air. Park around the corner. “I do not give my consent. You are not getting my signature.”
“Mrs Smithers,” the woman slapped one hand to her chest, eyes as big as her face, “I can get a doctor–”
Sarah snatched her tote from the floor. That was it, Henry’s plan all along. Certify her unfit, take Billy from her. She looked down. The toddler stirred but his tiny fists were still bunched up and his eyes were closed, lashes neatly separated. Her son, hers. Time for Mum to take charge. Henry would never suspect what she had planned for him.
– THE END –
|What I Write||
I write speculative short stories. Sometimes, I veer into horror (not gory). My goal is to publish them as a collection. Meanwhile, I would like to submit them to online publications. I enjoy ideas that can be considered sort of “twilight zone”. My main issue in writing is following through with my idea to arrive at a punchy ending. I need to learn how to follow through with the idea of the story. Sometimes, I have the conclusion of story in mind, but I struggle to connect beginning and ending.
Mending The Split (Eunoia Review)
One Year (Whimsplace)