Smile
1/1
Sunday. 2:13 PM. The playground.
It’s too windy to hear what he’s saying. I think perhaps he’s crying, but I can’t be sure. His face is in a constant state of whining, so I’m never sure. He keeps yelling, something about shoes or choose, but I can’t make out the sentence and I don’t want to walk all the way across the playground. There are too many kids. I don’t like kids.
It takes him a while, but eventually he grows tired of screaming, and he runs, trips, gets up and keeps running until he’s right in front of me. His finger is telling me to bow down to his level. He’s smiling. I bow down, and smile back. He starts screaming into my ear. No words, just screaming. I grab him, laugh, and throw him over my shoulder. It isn’t funny.
I take him home. He had too much energy of his own good, and I don’t know what to do about him. He’s seven and a half, but he acts like he’s three. Maybe four. He runs around the apartment, screaming at the top of his lungs, while he pretends to be a crashing airplane. I try to smile. My face just won’t let me, so I just sit there, blocking out the sound of my child’s joy with thoughts. Terrible thoughts. Thoughts of all the things I would do if I could. The things I won’t because I can’t.
I put him to bed earlier than normal, because I can’t stand to be around him. It’s not his fault, he doesn’t mean anything by it, but I can’t stand him. I love him, but I can’t stand him. He screams until his throat gives in and he falls asleep. I have the night to myself. I try to smile, but my face won’t. Can’t.
Monday. 01:32 AM. The Bar.
I left him alone in the apartment. I can still hear him scream. Always. It’s there, in the back of my head, he screams and laughs. I don’t know how to stop it, so I quit trying. The music of the bar does a fair job of drowning it. I hate the music they’re playing, but rather this than that. I have my eyes on a man, a few years older than me, across the bar. He is blonde with brown eyes and freckles. He looks just like him, only a lot older. I don’t smile, but he does. I walk over to him, and asks for a drink. He buys me one. And then another, and another, and another.
I kiss him. Hard and fast and wet. He asks me if I would like to come back to his place. I nod. I take his hand in mine, and he walks me to his car. It’s starting to get light out. He’s probably still sleeping. If not, he’s screaming. I’m glad I’m not there to know. I can’t stand his screaming. This man doesn’t scream. Not yet, anyways.
His apartment is big and classy, just like in the movies. He must make a lot of money. I wonder if he’s married, but I don’t really care. He kisses my neck, and I study a painting on the wall behind him. It’s very pretty with flowers and a stream. He leads me to the bedroom, and he undresses me. Off with his shirt. Off with his jeans. Off with his boxers. He’s not very gifted, but he will do. I almost enjoy it even.
I lie there and pretend to love it as he pushes himself into me, as he humps and moans, and at one point he screams, and I hate him. His body is disgusting, and he looks so much like him. He orgasms and I fake it. I fake it big, because he grins and feels accomplished. I pretend to fall asleep in case he wants to talk, and shortly after he’s sleeping. I almost smile. It’s perfect, as if I planned it.
I carefully get out of his bed. I find my underwear, my dress, my shoes, my jacket. It’s all there, and in my pocket I find exactly what I need. A knife. A small, but sharp knife. Then, I wait.
Monday. 05:12. His bedroom.
I carefully get back into his bed, with the knife in my hand. I stroke his cheek, kiss his forehead and hum to wake him up. His brown eyes slowly opens and he smiles. I almost smile back. I ask him if he slept well. He nods, and tries to sit up, but I keep him down. I pull the small knife out of my pocket and I show it to him. He doesn’t understand. He will soon enough.
I take the knife and carefully cut him across his chest. He doesn’t bleed, he cries. I tell him not to, because there’s nothing to be afraid of. He still cried. I hate it when he cries, so I press the knife into his chest, slowly and painfully, twisting and turning. He screams. I hate it when he screams, so I scream back and I stab him, stab him until he stops screaming. He’s quiet.
I almost smile, but my face won’t quite let me. Not just yet. He’s sleeping now, probably. Probably not. He’s bleeding quite a bit, so I dry it up. I don’t want any blood on my dress. I kiss his cheek, and cover him with his blanket. He looks just like my son, only older. I leave his apartment, because I miss him. He’s not so bad, even if he screams sometimes.
I walk home, because it isn’t very far. He’s still asleep when I get there. I stroke his cheek, kiss his forehead and hum to wake him up. His brown eyes slowly opens and he smiles. I almost smile back. I ask him if he slept well. He nods, and tries to sit up, but I keep him down. I tell him to go back to sleep, that mummy loves him very, very much. He smiles and falls asleep. He doesn’t scream.
I go into the bathroom. The light doesn’t work, but that’s okay. I try to smile at my reflection, but my face just won’t let me. I look at the knife in my hand, and I nod. My child will not grow up with a mother who doesn’t smile, I tell myself. I wash the dried blood of off the knife, and then I look up. I slowly and carefully cut a smile into my face. Blood drips on my dress, but that’s okay. I can change. I put down the knife and I look at myself in the mirror. I’m smiling.
It’s too windy to hear what he’s saying. I think perhaps he’s crying, but I can’t be sure. His face is in a constant state of whining, so I’m never sure. He keeps yelling, something about shoes or choose, but I can’t make out the sentence and I don’t want to walk all the way across the playground. There are too many kids. I don’t like kids.
It takes him a while, but eventually he grows tired of screaming, and he runs, trips, gets up and keeps running until he’s right in front of me. His finger is telling me to bow down to his level. He’s smiling. I bow down, and smile back. He starts screaming into my ear. No words, just screaming. I grab him, laugh, and throw him over my shoulder. It isn’t funny.
I take him home. He had too much energy of his own good, and I don’t know what to do about him. He’s seven and a half, but he acts like he’s three. Maybe four. He runs around the apartment, screaming at the top of his lungs, while he pretends to be a crashing airplane. I try to smile. My face just won’t let me, so I just sit there, blocking out the sound of my child’s joy with thoughts. Terrible thoughts. Thoughts of all the things I would do if I could. The things I won’t because I can’t.
I put him to bed earlier than normal, because I can’t stand to be around him. It’s not his fault, he doesn’t mean anything by it, but I can’t stand him. I love him, but I can’t stand him. He screams until his throat gives in and he falls asleep. I have the night to myself. I try to smile, but my face won’t. Can’t.
Monday. 01:32 AM. The Bar.
I left him alone in the apartment. I can still hear him scream. Always. It’s there, in the back of my head, he screams and laughs. I don’t know how to stop it, so I quit trying. The music of the bar does a fair job of drowning it. I hate the music they’re playing, but rather this than that. I have my eyes on a man, a few years older than me, across the bar. He is blonde with brown eyes and freckles. He looks just like him, only a lot older. I don’t smile, but he does. I walk over to him, and asks for a drink. He buys me one. And then another, and another, and another.
I kiss him. Hard and fast and wet. He asks me if I would like to come back to his place. I nod. I take his hand in mine, and he walks me to his car. It’s starting to get light out. He’s probably still sleeping. If not, he’s screaming. I’m glad I’m not there to know. I can’t stand his screaming. This man doesn’t scream. Not yet, anyways.
His apartment is big and classy, just like in the movies. He must make a lot of money. I wonder if he’s married, but I don’t really care. He kisses my neck, and I study a painting on the wall behind him. It’s very pretty with flowers and a stream. He leads me to the bedroom, and he undresses me. Off with his shirt. Off with his jeans. Off with his boxers. He’s not very gifted, but he will do. I almost enjoy it even.
I lie there and pretend to love it as he pushes himself into me, as he humps and moans, and at one point he screams, and I hate him. His body is disgusting, and he looks so much like him. He orgasms and I fake it. I fake it big, because he grins and feels accomplished. I pretend to fall asleep in case he wants to talk, and shortly after he’s sleeping. I almost smile. It’s perfect, as if I planned it.
I carefully get out of his bed. I find my underwear, my dress, my shoes, my jacket. It’s all there, and in my pocket I find exactly what I need. A knife. A small, but sharp knife. Then, I wait.
Monday. 05:12. His bedroom.
I carefully get back into his bed, with the knife in my hand. I stroke his cheek, kiss his forehead and hum to wake him up. His brown eyes slowly opens and he smiles. I almost smile back. I ask him if he slept well. He nods, and tries to sit up, but I keep him down. I pull the small knife out of my pocket and I show it to him. He doesn’t understand. He will soon enough.
I take the knife and carefully cut him across his chest. He doesn’t bleed, he cries. I tell him not to, because there’s nothing to be afraid of. He still cried. I hate it when he cries, so I press the knife into his chest, slowly and painfully, twisting and turning. He screams. I hate it when he screams, so I scream back and I stab him, stab him until he stops screaming. He’s quiet.
I almost smile, but my face won’t quite let me. Not just yet. He’s sleeping now, probably. Probably not. He’s bleeding quite a bit, so I dry it up. I don’t want any blood on my dress. I kiss his cheek, and cover him with his blanket. He looks just like my son, only older. I leave his apartment, because I miss him. He’s not so bad, even if he screams sometimes.
I walk home, because it isn’t very far. He’s still asleep when I get there. I stroke his cheek, kiss his forehead and hum to wake him up. His brown eyes slowly opens and he smiles. I almost smile back. I ask him if he slept well. He nods, and tries to sit up, but I keep him down. I tell him to go back to sleep, that mummy loves him very, very much. He smiles and falls asleep. He doesn’t scream.
I go into the bathroom. The light doesn’t work, but that’s okay. I try to smile at my reflection, but my face just won’t let me. I look at the knife in my hand, and I nod. My child will not grow up with a mother who doesn’t smile, I tell myself. I wash the dried blood of off the knife, and then I look up. I slowly and carefully cut a smile into my face. Blood drips on my dress, but that’s okay. I can change. I put down the knife and I look at myself in the mirror. I’m smiling.