Bad Baby
A loud keening reaches your ears just as you unlock your front door.
You place your bag down, toss your jacket onto the couch and make a stop in the kitchen.
In the small drawer, left next to the oven, you keep a bunch of collapsable ‘sorry sticks’. Lightweight things, hollow yet thick plastic tubes that shut up just like a telescope. You picked up a thirty case at the general store for five bucks.
You close up the stick, hiding it in your palm, and walk down your hallway, approaching the small door that sits just next to your bathroom door. Just as you turn the knob, the moaning sobs cut off. Pushing the door open, you spot your fluffy, huddled on the floor surrounded by kibble.
The food bowl is overturned and empty.
“Mummah!” Your fluffy, Baby, sobs. “Mummah, Babbeh nu mean to tippy boww! Is acks-den! Pwease, am sowwy!”
You huff. “Look at the mess. Baby, what have you done? Why do you keep spilling your food everywhere?”
“Acks-den! Acks-den, M-Mummah!”
“Do you not like your food?”
Baby hops onto her feet. “Nu! Nu, Babbeh wuv nummies!”
“Obviously not.” You step over the kibble, trying to avoid crushing it into the tiles. Hopefully, you’ll be able to swipe it back into the bowl without Baby complaining about ‘owd nummies’. Baby cowers back from you as you reach down and grab the soft fluff between her shoulder blades.
She shakes, curling her legs and tail into her belly. You ignore her pleading look and bring her into your tiny bathroom. You toss her into the bathtub, watching the way she curled against the freezing steel.
Seeing her wide eyes watching your every move almost makes you smile.
You sit on the tub’s side, flicking your hand to extend the sorry stick. Baby, however, barely notices as she is locked in a staring battle with you.
“I try very hard to support you, Baby. I give you toys, shelter and food.”
“Fank oo, Mummah,” Baby mumbles out of instinct.
“You keep spilling the food. You knock down the water bottle.”
Baby breaks her stare. “Nu mean, Mummah! Babbeh sowwy! Tuu hawd!”
Anger burns up and down your arms, leaving burnt trails of prickling skin. Baby doesn’t wail or scream when you raise your arm but instead flinches, tucking her head down as she tenses.
You bring the stick down hard onto her back, relishing in the sharp smack it makes. Rage bubbles in your chest as you repeatedly beat the stick into Baby’s sides and back. The fluffy lets out squeaks and groans but doesn’t fight you back, taking the strikes on her tattered, bare back. Old scars create a beautiful but chaotic pattern against her colourful fur and you add a few more, the fluff ripping out and skin rising in pink welts in the spaces it leaves.
Tears cut dark paths down her muzzle but she knows better than to cry or beg.
Your heart beats thunderously in your chest, beating against your ribcage. The fire under your skin turns from painful to soothing. You pause, holding the stick to your chest as you catch your breath.
You don’t know how many strikes you gave her but it hardly matters.
Baby twitches, her tail flicks back and forth. For some unknown reason, the movement of her tail enrages you again and you slash her with the stick. She had not expected it, and screeches in pain.
You toss the stick behind you, grabbing her throat in your hand. You squeeze as you bring your fist down hard onto the top of her skull. She chokes as you throttle her, shaking her small body back and forth. You lift her higher, shaking harder and harder before you slam her body against the tiles of the bathtub stall. Your heart is almost bursting as you breathe out harsh gasps and sighs. The loud ‘thud’ of her body is pleasant to your ears so you do it twice more.
Her wet eyes squeeze tightly and, in one last bloom of fury, you raise her and slam her down to the bottom of the tub. Her scream is barely louder than a whisper.
You finally let go and sit back against the sink counter, trying to catch your breath.
Baby gurgles and huffs, squirming as her new wounds touch the unforgiving steel.
She doesn’t look too injured. Her legs are unbroken and the blood is minimal.
She gasps in pain but her legs wriggle and spasm so you’re confident that her spine is fine.
“Suh-sowwy,” she chokes out. “Sowwy, Bah-kaf, B-Babbeh so sowwy.”
Sighing, you smile at the young fluffy. “Are you truly sorry? Do you love Mummy?”
“Wuv Mummah!” She tries to roll onto her back but you press a strong hand onto her stomach.
“I asked you a question.”
Her eyes turned wary and fearful. She immediately begins blabbering. “Babbeh sowwy. Babbeh wuv Mummah. Pwease. Babbeh twy hawd to num nummies. Babbeh wiww twy hawd. Pwease, wuv Mummah.”
You pet her mane softly. “That’s better. Mummy doesn’t want to hurt you, Baby. I love you. You have to stop making me mad like this.”
She whines as she nuzzles your hand. “Babbeh wiww nu do! Pwomise!”
“It makes Mummy feel bad. Makes her feel like she’s a bad mummy.”
“Nu! Mummah guud mummah! Is bad Babbeh! Wuv oo, Mummah!” You allow her to roll onto her shaking feet and she hugs your arm tightly, tears running down her face.
“Wuv Mummah wots! B-Babbeh twy hard’a! Babbeh wiww! Gunna make Mummah happeh!”
A sincere smile stretches your lips as you scratch behind her ear.
“Such a sweet girl.”
“Mummah otay?” Her face is still streaked with her tears of pain but she focuses on your supposed pain. She is a very good fluffy, indeed. You’ve raised her well.
“Mummy’s fine.” You pick her up and hold her against your chest. “Just do not spill your food again. That will make Mummy so angry. I don’t want to be angry at you.”
“Babbeh nu wiww!”
“Good girl! Now, how about we go into the kitchen and have some nice nummies, hmm? That will make Mummy feel really happy. And I know you’re hungry.”
“Babbeh hewp?”
Ideas flood your head but you push them away. You don’t want to break her like the others. “Sure, Baby. Just stay here a minute and let Mummy clean up the mess in the safe room.”
You say the last sentence with a pointed look and Baby looks shamed enough to not argue. You place her down onto the toilet mat and pat her head.
The door closes quietly behind you and you stretch. Your arm hurts a bit but it’s a pleasing ache, like the kind you get after exercising.
In the ‘safe room’, which is actually little more than a closet, you swipe the kibble back into the high-rimmed bowl. The bright blue block sits in the exact place you left it.
Carefully, you balance the tall food bowl on top. The block is too heavy for a fluffy to move and the bowl, too high to move onto the floor. To eat, Baby must stand on her back legs and carefully lean against the bowl. You make a mental note to get a taller block. Baby is getting proficient at eating out of that wobbly bowl.
At first, she complained about the block until you convinced her that the best fluffies ate like that and you would be so happy if she was the best fluffy. She agreed wholeheartedly then.
No point in removing it to avoid further ‘accidents’ tonight. She’ll avoid the food for the night, you’re sure. Just as you go to leave, you check the water bottle bolted to the wall. The twisting cap on the water bottle is loose but still on. Some water is missing, meaning Baby had taken a drink from it.
Baby is getting very cautious with her things as time goes on. You grumble but leave the cap. It could be untwisted a little more but you don’t want to spill the water all over yourself and you’re sure Baby will soon knock the cap off.
The thought excites you.
In the bathroom, Baby is waiting for you. Her smile is infectious and you scoop her up, giggling as she cheers.
“Mummah back! Wah Babbeh an’ Mummah have fo’ nummies?”
“I don’t know, let’s go see,” you reply cheerfully.
Baby cheers as you take her to the kitchen, her stubby hooves on your shoulders and her muzzle tucked under your chin.
However, you don’t go to the fridge at first, though Baby hardly notices. You pull open the ‘sorry drawer’ and count the sticks. The one you threw had bent at the middle and you hardly have ten sticks left.
I’ll get another thirty box soon, you think as you shut the door with your hip.
“Hmm, Baby, what do you want to eat?” You already know the answer.
“Sketti! Skettis! Yummy skettis!”
Laughing, you let the fluffy down as she rushes off to open the pots-and-pans cabinet, limping but undeterred.
“Sketti, it is.”
Tomorrow, she will knock down the water which will soak the food. You’re already pissed thinking about it.
So let her have her cake. Let her enjoy the rest of her day. Because when that water dribbles out of the closet and into the carpeted hallway, she will lose something. An eye. Or a leg. Maybe more, depending on how you feel.
You make another note to stop by the thrift shop and pick up a couple old towels.
Lord knows you’ll need it.