Baby Psycho

Baby Psycho

Wyatt was difficult since birth. The bridged delivery, a 17-hour monstrosity, nearly ripped Mother in half. Tiny fingernails mauling, clawing the womb. He greeted the world through a blood-curdling howl, covered in birth waste and blood. The world did not greet him back, however, Mother had lost consciousness, so Baby was not received with any gratitude or maternal love.

The infant learned to crawl, walk and run with the purpose of catching Chase, their lovable, aging beagel. Wyatt’s beady eyes constantly followed the dog; his fat, pale cheeks would become crimson at the sight of the animal, clenching his chubby hands into tight little fists of unadultered rage. Chase would yelp, fart, and flee at the sight of the baby.

Alopecia aside, Wyatt’s appearance was disturbing, forcing people to look away. Now 4 years old, the absence of eyebrows, and mottled skin, gave him reptilian air. Poor little Wy-wy was grossly overweight and the owner a righteous set of saggy man-child-boobs, constantly squeezed with his arms. Nasty nervous tic his parents couldn't get him to stop. The scent of sour milk oozed from his pores.

Despite the boy’s portly proportions, his movements were stealthy. Mother dropped many casseroles startled by her child staring from a corner of the kitchen when she could have sworn he was not there a minute ago.

Chase was getting old, and with age came canine arthritis and poor vision. He could no longer outrun 7-year-old Wyatt. All his hideout places were given away by his uncontrollable flatulence. The boy knew this and waited. Patiently.

The opportunity arose on a sunny Sunday morning; his pet was asleep under the kitchen table, drooling. Wyatt was mesmerized by the pulses of the dog’s belly, the rise, and fall of the ribcage; he wanted to dig deep into the animal, squeeze, and feel the blood and guts slushing through his fingers. The anticipation cutting his airways, he reached out, dragging a very confused Chase by the tail, violently straddling all his 102 pounds of crushing fat on the 18-pound dog. 

Wyatt felt the ribs of the animal cracking under his weight, the terror in the animal’s eyes delighted him. He dug his fingers into the furry belly till the dog stopped moving. There were urine and feces all around, less blood than he had hoped. 

He hopped back to his room “Why is my pee-pee hard?” he wondered, tugging at it.

Mother was heard wailing in the kitchen. 

How he hated her.