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There was a cockroach in my bedroom. The realization hit me the minute I opened my eyes. Or, maybe it was sooner. It might have nagged my subconscious and jerked me out of my dreams. I leapt to my feet, quickly shrugging off several hours of sleep like an infested coat, and I reached for the container of insecticide faithfully sitting on the nightstand before scanning the room for the fatherless brat. I stood in battle stance, bare feet on the cold marble floor, at the foot of the king-size bed and waited. It was there somewhere; it had to be. I had an instinct for those things, and it had never let me down. It wasn’t a smell or anything like that; it was just an uncanny awareness. Godwin had always teased me about it – my ability to sniff out a roach. I wondered where he was in my moment of distress. Where was Godwin?

I could taste the adrenalin in the back of my tongue as I squeezed out some of the pungent aerosol randomly into the air. I hated cockroaches! They were so restless and unpredictable, not to mention filthy as shit. I could deal with any other type of pest but not cockroaches. They were a pathological fear for me. Where was Godwin? I knew he had some justification for not being present in that moment, but I couldn’t remember what it was. The whiff of insecticide tickled my nose but I easily suppressed the sneeze. I hoped that the cockroach would sense the poison and feel attacked; this was bound to force it to reveal itself in its attempt to make its way to safer ground.

I was not disappointed. Almost immediately, I heard a rustling on the nightstand to my right. The noise was exaggerated; it seemed like a rat might be capable of shifting around the weight of whatever it was that rustled so annoyingly, not a roach; definitely not a roach. But suddenly, there it was; it emerged from beneath the untidy stack of papers and scurried upwards along the wall towards the ceiling. It was indeed a cockroach. It was frightfully huge, and could have covered the entire surface of an iPhone 5. It scampered on tall legs with its wings askew as if they had just been used; or worse, as if they were about to be.

I could hear my heart beating loudly in my ears. I felt like I had just run a mile. But, for all of the turmoil stirring inside me, I tried to keep a very calm exterior as I cautiously approached the creature that had decided to play dead half-way up the wall. Cold sweat trickling down my temples, my battle arm extended towards the wall, I pushed down the knob with my index finger to release a consistent stream of vapour towards the ugly thing. I did not want to stop until it dropped to the floor. But that did not happen. In fact, the cockroach hadn’t moved an inch from its position. It felt as though I had been engaged in a game of “chicken” by the obstinate insect and it dared me to blink first. I was conscious of the fact that I was depleting my ammunition; the can felt much lighter in my hand already. I couldn’t empty the entire content not knowing what was going on: why wasn’t it falling to the floor? Why wasn’t it reacting to the poison?

It took me a whole bag of courage to stop my assault and stand back. I watched it. It budged ever so slightly by extending its body away from the wall. My mouth suddenly went dry. I hoped that the damage had been done and that the thing would collapse lifeless to the floor. That’s exactly what would have made sense. Instead, the creature whipped out its wings in dramatic gesture and leapt off the wall straight at me. My heart jumped into my mouth. In that split second, I was torn between making for the door and unleashing another gust of insecticide on the approaching ball of buzzing filth. Before I could decide, I felt the roach connect with the side of my face (which makes me believe that I must have opted to run out the door, because if I had chosen to fight the creature, it should have hit my nose); it felt like a dirty slap. I recovered from the daze just in time to see the creature scuttle off across the floor and disappear under the sofa. Again, I had the urge to run out of the bedroom, but the fact that this thing could get lost in my bedroom or even make its way through the crack underneath the door to any other room in the house stopped me. I couldn’t turn my back on it and allow it to choose its hiding place; it had to be smoked out and killed dead.

I picked up the container of insecticide, which I had dropped to the floor when the cockroach had assaulted me, and cautiously approached the sofa tilting it slightly to kill the shadow beneath. I saw nothing. Then I heard a thud from the seat of the sofa, and instantly, I felt the creature scampering up my right arm towards my shoulder. It looked larger than life with its wings spread out in determination, and my eyes widened in blind panic. Without a thought for protecting my bulging belly, I threw my limbs out in a craze to shake off the thing that had made tracks on my skin. I heard myself scream. I couldn’t stop feeling its legs running up my arm; but I knew it wasn’t there anymore, which only meant it was in several places at once.

It wasn’t hiding from me. I watched it run purposefully towards the wall, up the wall, and then it leapt off the surface once more towards me like it was programmed to attack by some evil genius. This time it hit my lips, and I did not dare to scream. I stoically denied the creature access into the place it seemed determined to go. It planted its legs on either side of my mouth and I felt the roughness of its ribbed underbelly against my lips. Its head came up to my nose and its perfectly parabolic antenna obstructed my vision. I was frozen. Not even my heart moved. Its legs sank into my skin and it was painful. I knew that I would tear off my flesh with it once I summoned the nerve to grab it between my fingers. The thought irked me. I imagined squeezing it too hard and getting a splotch of gunk in my face. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t wrap my fingers around the repulsive thing that sat securely on my face. It moved lower, its wings half-way open to steady itself, until its head pushed against my lips with astonishing vigour. I could feel its abdomen graze my chin as it curved its body. Inside me, the ball of anxiety in the pit of my belly grew tall; it climbed up towards my throat until it became an icy tower of terror. And then I could not stop myself. I screamed. The insect was quick as a flash as it collided with the stalagmite of fright that had hit my tonsils.

I awoke on the floor, at the foot of the bed, having completely lost all sense of time but I still recalled the encounter with the roach as vivid as the present. Could it have been a dream? My throat ached. Maybe that was only a psychosomatic reaction; my mind was telling lies to my body and my body gullibly believed its tales. That must have been the case, because there was no evidence that what had happened had actually happened. Except my aching throat. I tested the content of the insecticide, which sat seemingly unmoved on the nightstand, and I discovered that it was still intact. My mystical super-power confirmed to me that there was no cockroach in my bedroom. A whiff of air, which I hadn’t realized I had been holding in, escaped through my lips: it was only a dream.

It was only a dream. I remembered then that I had had a fight with Godwin. He had told me a funny story and I laughed; I laughed so hard that the tears came out to wash away the indecency of my euphoria. I hadn't laughed that way in a long while. And then Godwin got upset. A container on a flatbed trailer had keeled over in traffic and fallen on a little saloon car; it crushed everybody inside. I imagined layers of compressed bodies stuck to one another and marinated in blood. “Is this funny to you?” Godwin demanded perplexed. I had no idea why he was asking me the question or what he wanted to do with my answer. I did not trust my husband with the information; so I stayed silent. He might have mistaken my cautiousness for remorse, because he let it slide. But I watched him closely after that incident. I paid particular close attention to the noises he made: like how his tea spoon connected with the ceramic mug when he stirred his coffee; or how he snored beside me at night; or how he would sneeze every time he walked into the bathroom. It became clear to me that my husband was working with people to abduct me. He had devised a clever way to communicate with his cohorts. I did not let him know that I knew what he was up to, but it was obvious that I needed to get him out of the house immediately.

So, I was by myself that night by my own design.

I went into the adjoining bathroom and flipped up the faucet to release a blast of cold water into the washbasin. I splashed my face with the refreshing coolness and grabbed a face towel from the rack to pat myself dry. My reflection in the vanity mirror returned my scrutinizing stare. I stuck out my tongue as far as I could, opened my mouth wide until I could see the opening to the cave – the M-shaped hole – through which the phantom cockroach had disappeared. There was nothing to suggest that though: no stray legs or loose wings caught in between my teeth (not that I had expected there to be) but the mere thought of it made me reach for my toothbrush regardless, and I squeezed a generous amount of paste onto the bristles.

It took me all of seven minutes to brush, retch, spit and rinse until my mind accepted my mouth again. I stuck out my tongue to inspect its cleanliness, turning my head from side to side to get a good view. Suddenly, the most curious thing happened. Believe me when I tell you this: my reflection walked away. I watched as the me in the mirror turned away from me, opened the door and walked out of the bathroom into the bedroom. I felt bereft – left staring into a mirror that showed me the backdrop of the bathroom but no image of me. And I was still standing there. I was absolutely dumbstruck. It occurred to me that there might be someone who looked like me in my bedroom while I stood befuddled in the bathroom. It also occurred to me that I should immediately go after my reflection to be amalgamated with it. And that’s what I did: I went into the bedroom half expecting to find myself tucked in bed without a care in the world; but to my relief, the sheets were as dishevelled as I had left them. And there was no one in my bed. I went back into the bathroom, looked into the mirror, and to my total dismay, I still had no reflection.

Suddenly, I felt a sharp pinch in my abdomen, right behind my belly button. I instinctively clutched my protruding belly; I couldn’t see myself grimace in pain because I had no image in the mirror. Without warning, a vibrant stream of golden-yellow urine splattered to the ceramic floor from between my thighs. I wore no underwear at night, so the flow broke free unhindered. The yellow pool gathered around my feet and extended rapidly in all directions. The stream did not stop. The colour of the effluent got consistently darker until it was a deep crimson and thick as blood. It was blood. And still it did not stop. Lumps of blood followed suit plunging into the pool and splashing red all over the wall. Then, there was a foot. As distinct as day, there was a foot of an infant swimming in the pool and it had fallen out between my entrenched thighs. I watched the tiny severed foot in the bloody urine and heard myself cry out in agony as the implication of it dawned on me. But I could not move. I watched as my baby’s tiny arm followed; then, there were several unrecognizable fragments that, by their texture, undoubtedly belonged to the body of my developing foetus.

Then came the head. It fell onto the heap of mottled flesh and rolled into the shallow pool. Instantly, the flow ceased.

I heard myself whimper in the stillness of the night. The life was dead. I had been trying for seven years! It had never stayed beyond the third month; until now, deep into the seventh. I had bought the bassinet and the baby clothes as cute as kittens. I had painted the walls of the nursery in princess pink. I had opened up my heart as wide as the ocean. My gut hung shrivelled and flaccid in front of me like a deflated balloon; a metaphor for my collapsed world. I could hear my weeping being carried back to me from the distance, as if every demon in hell mocked my predicament. And I could hear the wailing of an infant. I could hear the wailing of an infant? I thought that it must be all in my head. It wasn’t possible that there was actually a baby crying somewhere in my bedroom.

But there was.

The sound came from inside the cupboard. My hand trembled like a leaf in the wind as I reached for the latch. The wailing subsided, as if the infant sensed that help was near and that it did not have to be in the darkness for much longer. She knew! She started to coo and gurgle, and she hadn’t even seen my face. Overcome with emotion, I placed my ear against the wooden surface of the cupboard door, taking in the strangely familiar noises. I fought to steady my own breathing. Then I opened the cupboard; inside, on the floor board propped against an overnight bag, was a naked baby girl with a smile that went straight to the heart. I blinked my tears away. “Look who it is!” I cooed in baby-friendly tone, and she responded with excited laughter. She had her father’s eyes, but the dimples were clearly mine. I picked her up gingerly and rested her head on my shoulder as though I were attempting to burp her. On cue, she expelled a grotesque belch which continued into a hiss. I realized that I had draped a ninety pound Burmese python around my neck.

This must be another dream, I thought desperately as the snake lazily explored the contours of my body. I was weighed down to my knees by the heaviness of the beautiful band that seemed to be sliding peacefully in every direction. My breathing became ragged as I waited for it to disappear, but it kept being there, bold as brass, for several minutes. I did not trust myself to aggravate it with any sudden movements, so I remained as still as I could be under the circumstances.

“There’s a python around your shoulders.”

I turned towards Godwin’s measured tone. I could not see him, but I knew he was there. And he had just corroborated my most recent fear: the snake was real. If he could see it too, then it had to be.

“Help me.” I said to him. But my eyes did not search the room for Godwin; they were transfixed by the flat head hovering before my face, and the forked tongue that snuck out of its tapered snout. I suddenly had the urge to throw up. There was a faint continuous ringing in my ears; the type that usually indicated a disturbance in transmission.
The sound of the python’s head connecting with the surface of a spade pulled me back to consciousness. It squirmed wildly and let go of me sprawling its heavy mass all over the floor, so I took a step back to watch Godwin whack it once more.

“Its head!” I cried, “Cut its head off!” The spade came down swift and vertical but before it connected with the reptile, I realized that I had made a mistake. “No! Stop!” I cried. But it was too late: the head of my beautiful dimpled girl lay severed from her chubby body. There was blood of innocence staining the floor.

I wept.

As I crouched over the atrocity in absolute despondence, I felt that pinch in my abdomen again. My belly started to swell. As it expanded, it stretched the shrivelled skin over the being that had taken up residence inside my womb. But my baby girl from inside the cupboard was dead. And in the bathroom lay the severed parts of my seven month old pregnancy. Who was this now in my belly? I heard jingles from seemingly far away: Happy mother’s day, were the words; happy mother’s day. I belched. And then I smelt it: the scent of the sewer and all things ungodly.

There was a cockroach in my bedroom.

In a mad frenzy, I rushed to the kitchen. I was not going to birth the devil’s child; this thing which had pushed out my own sweet angel to occupy my body. I pulled out the boning knife from the collection of sheathed knives in the fancy holder on the marble counter top. It was as elegant and beautiful as the sunset, and capable of doing what needed to be done. With only a moment’s hesitation to say a prayer, I plunged the knife into my gut so deeply that I was sure I had reached the cockroach. I pulled the knife out and unleashed a stream of cherry wine. I thrust the knife back in on the other side, determined to get the sucker in the gut. I pulled it out; more wine. I pushed it back in. Out. In. Out. I knew when it happened that I had got the beast in the heart. On the kitchen floor, I sat back in satisfaction. My legs spread out in front of me, my belly a fountain that had soaked my nightgown in red. The blood gushed out of me very quickly. And then I saw him: the devil with his well-shoed feet as he stepped into the red sea.

The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was Godwin’s grim face. His eyes were red and puffy. He looked at me, but said nothing. He was waiting for me to speak.

“Where are we?” I obliged.

“St. Mary’s.”

The hospital. “Why? What happened?”

Godwin averted his gaze. He did not say another word, so I let him be. I realized then that I was restrained in my bed and could not move my arms and legs. I felt a ball of anxiety well up in my belly. What had happened? Then I felt the shooting pain radiate through my abdomen. I noticed the bandage wrapped around my midriff and it dawned on me that my belly was no longer as distended as it should be seven months in. Unfamiliar images filled my mind and I was instantly filled with a sense of foreboding. “Is she okay?” I kept my eyes fixed on the blue ceiling. I did not want to hear the answer. And when Godwin did not say anything, I felt the tears sting my eyes and break free.

I deserved to die. I did not deserve to live. I knew that I should throw myself out of the window overlooking the parking lot, and fall to my certain death. I knew that I should break every single bone in my body as I hit the concrete. I knew that I should do it as soon as possible. I had butchered my own child with a kitchen knife.

“I am a mad woman.”

Godwin’s silence was his way of accepting my declaration, and probably I had given voice to his exact thoughts. But I could not begrudge him his right to blame me for the death of his daughter.

I stopped reading when it landed on her lips!!

I can't read this, I just caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan't! Why are you doing this to me

Just kill the monster already and move on with the story

This is a horror script....


I am your biggest fan misswrite! your talent no be here, sweetie so well done in advance!

*Takes a deep breath and goes back to read*

I am speechless

what a master piece... always a pleasure reading your work

LivingFree:
I stopped reading when it landed on her lips!!

I can't read this, I just caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan't! Why are you doing this to me

Just kill the monster already and move on with the story

This is a horror script....


I am your biggest fan misswrite! your talent no be here, sweetie so well done in advance!

*Takes a deep breath and goes back to read*

Lol.........

LivingFree:
I am speechless

what a master piece... always a pleasure reading your work

Thank you, gorgeous.

And the Miss writes again...nice one..nice one...

AvatarMode:
And the Miss writes again...nice one..nice one...

Thanks so much, dear.

As usual. I'm already used to the feeling of "not being used" to your writings, whenever you churn out a piece that looks so new the style feels alien and divine.

MissWrite, with the way you make letters dance and command words with each pen stroke, I'm convinced even scribes on the celestial plane will soonest entrust you with their pens and scrolls, because you're better suited handling even their very own tools than they ever could have dreamt possible.

Tozara:
As usual. I'm already used to the feeling of "not being used" to your writings, whenever you churn out a piece that looks so new the style feels alien and divine.

MissWrite, with the way you make letters dance and command words with each pen stroke, I'm convinced even scribes on the celestial plane will soonest entrust you with their pens and scrolls, because you're better suited handling even their very own tools than they ever could have dreamt possible.

........my dear eloquent friend! You're making me blush. Thank you, sweetie,,,,

MissWrite:



........my dear eloquent friend! You're making me blush. Thank you, sweetie,,,,

It's a delight.

You seem scarce on here these days. Sanity seems to have gone on strike too.

I hope you've been good.

Tozara:
It's a delight.

You seem scarce on here these days. Sanity seems to have gone on strike too.

I hope you've been good.

Lol. You're right about that. Yeah, I've been good.

MissWrite:


Lol. You're right about that. Yeah, I've been good.

That's a delight.

Madammmmm ohhhh, why the grim tale.... This made me so sad, kudos to your literary genius, Stephen King got nothing on you...

Smooth278:
Madammmmm ohhhh, why the grim tale.... This made me so sad, kudos to your literary genius, Stephen King got nothing on you...

........Awwww, thank you.

Spectacular.
There's something about the way you write... You remind me of someone...
Are you RuggedyAnn?

coolk:
Spectacular.

There's something about the way you write...
You remind me of someone...

Are you RuggedyAnn?

Hey! ..........Yes, I am. Good catch. Thank you for the compliment

How've you been?

MissWrite:


Hey! ..........Yes, I am. Good catch. Thank you for the compliment
How've you been?

Awesome.
Missed your stories shaaar. I don look for RuggedyAnn tire. What happened to your moniker?

coolk:



Awesome.

Missed your stories shaaar. I don look for RuggedyAnn tire.
What happened to your moniker?

.........I retired it on a whim. I can't explain why. But I'm still here.

MissWrite:


.........I retired it on a whim. I can't explain why. But I'm still here.

Alright.