Fiction: Terrible Children
Jul. 3rd, 2012 10:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clare_dragonflyTitle: Terrible Children
Word count: 1,024
Rating: PG-13
Prompt:![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
rainbowfic Tyrian Purple 30, mother of monsters; Heart Gold 11, There is no remedy for love but to love more. - Thoreau
Notes: It's not specified, but I think the cops that talk to the narrator are Maggie and Paul. Warning for violence.
“I am afraid of our son,” she told her husband.
“How can you be afraid of an infant?” he asked.
She had no answer, but she was afraid of him.
But she loved him too.
She was afraid every time she held him, afraid as she suckled him at her breast (was he taking some of her own life energy with the milk?), afraid as she sang him songs and read him stories and taught him numbers.
When her milk dried up and she found another life in her womb, she was even more afraid, for what would her terrible son do to this new being, that he would surely see as taking her place in his life?
But when the new child had grown and she held her daughter in her arms and looked into her eyes, she was perversely comforted, for this child, too, was terrible. They would love each other, as they could perhaps love no others. They were the same, out of the same womb and missing the same parts.
She did not tell her husband that she was afraid of her daughter, too, and did not mention again that she still feared her son, and he seemed satisfied.
She loved them both, and sang them songs and read them stories and taught them numbers, and she never, never gave them the least inkling that she was afraid of them. She could not, because then they might become angry at her, and that would be even more frightening, but what was worse was it would break her heart, because she loved her children and did not want them to hate her.
When her daughter was old enough to be weaned she hoped to find the quickening in her womb again, but though she and her husband tried and tried there were no others. They only had their two terrible children.
She was surprised at how her heart broke when she realized that she would never have a normal child, only her dead-eyed, insect-killing two.
But she loved them, and she loved them, and she loved them. And she hid it when they moved on from bugs to larger animals. She claimed allergies when her husband offered to bring home a puppy for the children. She encouraged the move to the suburb where they would be closer to a park, a place where the children could go and play safely and where no one would see the little bodies they left in their wakes.
She did not know how to protect the world from her children. But she knew how to protect her children from the world, and she knew how to love them.
Her children made no friends, even in their new school. When she went for a parent-teacher day she saw the other students and saw that they were afraid of her children and she saw the teachers and saw that they, too, were afraid of her children. So she gave her children even more love and told them to always cling to each other, that they might never have anyone but each other so they should never let each other go.
They held hands and promised her.
Her children were not bullied. Once a boy spat at her daughter and her son took revenge and the other boy was not seen at that school again. The teacher tried to speak to her but she told the woman that she would never discourage her son from protecting his sister and that was that.
Her husband drifted away, took a mistress. Now that she knew she would have no more children she did not care. All of her was wrapped up in her two beautiful children, whom she loved.
They were still small when they brought home the boy with the purple face and the crack in his skull that was no longer bleeding, so she found a shovel and an appropriate place and dug the hole herself.
They were not so small when they brought home the girl with the hole in her stomach and the ripped-up clothing, so she showed them where she had buried the boy and gave them the shovel and went home to wait for her children to come home. And they did. They were such good children to never make her worry.
She still sang to them and read them stories, though they had long since learned their numbers, and they seemed to be happy with that. They would never let her leave their room at night without either a song or a story.
Her son did not go to college, but stayed at home and worked in a convenience store and took care of his mother. Her daughter did go to college, nearby, and then took a job as a secretary and took care of her mother. Her husband had left, long ago, and she did not miss him. She had her children, whom she loved.
They found better ways to dispose of the bodies. She was so proud of them, her bright, strong children.
When the police came to speak with her (the children were both at work), she told them nothing. Not because she was afraid they would kill her if the told the police what she knew—though they would—but because she loved them and could not bear the thought of parting from them.
She loved her children.
When they took her children away she thought she would die of heartbreak, but they wrote her letters from their prisons and told her they still loved her.
She had not known, until she received those letters, that they did love her. She kept the letters close to her heart.
She moved out to a little house by herself halfway between the two prisons. She went once a week to visit her son and once a week in the other direction to visit her daughter. They still sent her a little money to keep herself up. They were such good children.
She loved her children and they loved her. She needed nothing else. Her life was complete.
Did you enjoy this story? You can read more stories in this world or see all my fiction posted at Dreamwidth!
Word count: 1,024
Rating: PG-13
Prompt:
rainbowfic Tyrian Purple 30, mother of monsters; Heart Gold 11, There is no remedy for love but to love more. - ThoreauNotes: It's not specified, but I think the cops that talk to the narrator are Maggie and Paul. Warning for violence.
“I am afraid of our son,” she told her husband.
“How can you be afraid of an infant?” he asked.
She had no answer, but she was afraid of him.
But she loved him too.
She was afraid every time she held him, afraid as she suckled him at her breast (was he taking some of her own life energy with the milk?), afraid as she sang him songs and read him stories and taught him numbers.
When her milk dried up and she found another life in her womb, she was even more afraid, for what would her terrible son do to this new being, that he would surely see as taking her place in his life?
But when the new child had grown and she held her daughter in her arms and looked into her eyes, she was perversely comforted, for this child, too, was terrible. They would love each other, as they could perhaps love no others. They were the same, out of the same womb and missing the same parts.
She did not tell her husband that she was afraid of her daughter, too, and did not mention again that she still feared her son, and he seemed satisfied.
She loved them both, and sang them songs and read them stories and taught them numbers, and she never, never gave them the least inkling that she was afraid of them. She could not, because then they might become angry at her, and that would be even more frightening, but what was worse was it would break her heart, because she loved her children and did not want them to hate her.
When her daughter was old enough to be weaned she hoped to find the quickening in her womb again, but though she and her husband tried and tried there were no others. They only had their two terrible children.
She was surprised at how her heart broke when she realized that she would never have a normal child, only her dead-eyed, insect-killing two.
But she loved them, and she loved them, and she loved them. And she hid it when they moved on from bugs to larger animals. She claimed allergies when her husband offered to bring home a puppy for the children. She encouraged the move to the suburb where they would be closer to a park, a place where the children could go and play safely and where no one would see the little bodies they left in their wakes.
She did not know how to protect the world from her children. But she knew how to protect her children from the world, and she knew how to love them.
Her children made no friends, even in their new school. When she went for a parent-teacher day she saw the other students and saw that they were afraid of her children and she saw the teachers and saw that they, too, were afraid of her children. So she gave her children even more love and told them to always cling to each other, that they might never have anyone but each other so they should never let each other go.
They held hands and promised her.
Her children were not bullied. Once a boy spat at her daughter and her son took revenge and the other boy was not seen at that school again. The teacher tried to speak to her but she told the woman that she would never discourage her son from protecting his sister and that was that.
Her husband drifted away, took a mistress. Now that she knew she would have no more children she did not care. All of her was wrapped up in her two beautiful children, whom she loved.
They were still small when they brought home the boy with the purple face and the crack in his skull that was no longer bleeding, so she found a shovel and an appropriate place and dug the hole herself.
They were not so small when they brought home the girl with the hole in her stomach and the ripped-up clothing, so she showed them where she had buried the boy and gave them the shovel and went home to wait for her children to come home. And they did. They were such good children to never make her worry.
She still sang to them and read them stories, though they had long since learned their numbers, and they seemed to be happy with that. They would never let her leave their room at night without either a song or a story.
Her son did not go to college, but stayed at home and worked in a convenience store and took care of his mother. Her daughter did go to college, nearby, and then took a job as a secretary and took care of her mother. Her husband had left, long ago, and she did not miss him. She had her children, whom she loved.
They found better ways to dispose of the bodies. She was so proud of them, her bright, strong children.
When the police came to speak with her (the children were both at work), she told them nothing. Not because she was afraid they would kill her if the told the police what she knew—though they would—but because she loved them and could not bear the thought of parting from them.
She loved her children.
When they took her children away she thought she would die of heartbreak, but they wrote her letters from their prisons and told her they still loved her.
She had not known, until she received those letters, that they did love her. She kept the letters close to her heart.
She moved out to a little house by herself halfway between the two prisons. She went once a week to visit her son and once a week in the other direction to visit her daughter. They still sent her a little money to keep herself up. They were such good children.
She loved her children and they loved her. She needed nothing else. Her life was complete.
Did you enjoy this story? You can read more stories in this world or see all my fiction posted at Dreamwidth!
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