The Deeply Wretched

Trigger warning: This is a bit of a controversial write, and I don’t wish to upset anyone, so if anything about abortions makes you upset, turn away now. For the brave, venture forth!

The Wretched

In the darkness he waited, his breathing a strangled mewling, wet and thick. His malformed body was stretched out on its belly, under Theresa’s bed, waiting for the moment he could see her bare feet walk into the room. Her toenails would be painted of course, she was always doing little things like that to prettify herself. Looks mattered a lot to her. Perhaps it had been a reason why she had killed him. She had murdered him as he slept within her, innocent, dreaming, loving her with the perfect, effortless love only a child could give to its mother.


He remembered hearing the hateful words the doctor had told her. He would be horribly deformed should he be allowed to live. Though he was malformed, he could sense things better than most babies could at 20 weeks in the womb. He felt her terror, felt it seize her heart until it trickled into his own body, paralyzing him with fear. He could feel her tears running down her cheeks as if he were crying himself, and he shook with concern for her. For Theresa, his mother.


He wanted to comfort her, to tell her everything would be okay, but how could he? He was unborn, and though he could feel every emotion she went through as if it were his own, he couldn’t be sure she could feel his as well. He had to try. He sent out waves of love, and though he couldn’t sing, he thought of a comforting song that had no words, something to soothe her and let her know he loved her. This he emoted to her, trying to sync his heartbeat to hers. Their heartbeats were the rhythm of his ode to her, his wonderful, one and only mother.


She couldn’t have heard him, he knew that now. He fought the tears that threatened to burst forth, flowing like a storm of torment from his bulbous eyes. It made his strangled breathing louder, as if he were choking on sinews and clots of blood. Like the day she had killed him.


He had felt everything; The rising suction of one arm being severed from his body. The bright blast of light that followed the blinding pain was nothing next to knowing that his mother didn’t love him. Because he wouldn’t be pretty. Because he would be different. She had wanted a handsome son, not one with a curved spine and extra fingers, one who might be born without a nose, with only a couple of holes to draw breath from, always to make a horrible, clotted sound as he breathed. He would always be ugly. How could someone like her, who was always off to trips at the salon, or torturing herself in the name of beauty, ever love something that had come from herself that would always be repugnant?


Oh, how he had screamed as his legs were pulled from his body, his tiny mouth opened into a perfect O. But she couldn’t hear him. Not even when he sent out his pleading to her in his heartbeat, hoping that it would travel through the blood they shared and land in her heart. He prayed he could hear his tormented pleading to stop, stop, oh he would be a good boy! He might be deformed, he might need extra help in his life, but he still loved her, and he would always be a good boy for her.


Then everything went black. No more thudding heartbeat, no more broken, choking sobs from his mother.


He had been dead. For a while.


His mother’s grief had slowly pulled him back from oblivion. It fed him until his mangled body was reformed. It gave him a new life as something much more terrible that he would have been had he been allowed to be born. Now, he was something sinister, and he wanted revenge.


He couldn’t help but sob as he saw her feet walking into the room, her toenails a vivid shade of sparkling blue.




For a moment he wanted to go to her, to be held like any child would want to be held, to feel the comfort only she could give him. Then he remembered the pain, the sensation of dejection when he knew his own mother would rather kill him than love him. How could she?




The bed above him creaked as she sat on it, her weight pressing the mattress down until it was only a few inches from his face. It was time.


He began to crawl out from under the bed, slithering slowly inch by inch, leaving a trail of blood and grime behind him. He had no weapon, nor did he need one. He had a full set of teeth, several rows of them, all pointed and hooked like a shark’s.


Her foot was just before him now, and he reached for it with all the fingers of his right hand. He tried not to mewl as he his flesh met hers. For one wondrous second, as his skin pressed against hers, he felt happy.


“I forgive you mother,” he thought as he touched her. He felt the blood in her veins as his tiny fingers pressed against her artery, and thought, “This blood runs through me too, her blood is my own.”


Then the screaming began. She had looked down to see what was touching her and had seen him, and though he was no longer inside her, he could still feel the crippling fear, the horrible alarm that crushed the breath from her lungs as she looked down upon him. Her dead, malformed son.


“Please don’t scream mother,” he wanted to say, but he had no lips and his tongue was split in half like a snake’s. He hated that she was afraid, hated that the mere sight of him caused her to panic.


Then she kicked him, hard, across his face, sending him flying several feet across the room.


This time, there was no pain, no remorse for what could have been, only rage. Blinding and hot, boiling in his heart and erupting in him in a murderous flood that needed satisfaction. Tonight she would know what it was like to die.


The force of his anger gave him strength. Where before he could only crawl, now he could raise himself on his legs. Like a horse’s back legs, they were bowed backward, ending in cloven hooves.


He ran to her, and before she could get away, he used his claws to climb up her body, tearing into her flesh as he fought his way up her. He could feel her terror striking her heart like thunder, he sensed the adrenalin as it pumped through her veins. Like her grief, it gave him strength, and he used it to his advantage.


When she threw her head back in a panicked scream, he lunged for her throat. He caught her by the jugular and worked his teeth into it. Feeling the skin as it gave way in his mouth, he let out a sound of satisfaction. Blood rushed into his mouth in a metallic stream, hot and copious.


His mother no longer fought. Exhausted from shock and fatigued by the terror, she collapsed to the floor. To his surprise, she began to stroke his cheek, her terror now changed to remorse, confusion and affection.


“Oh my boy,” she gurgled, blood filling her mouth. “I deserve this. I’m so sorry.”


Her heartbeat was slowing, and the stream of blood filling his mouth was growing weaker. He unlatched his mouth from her throat and looked up at her, hope filling his dead heart. Could it be, in her final moments, that she was truly sorry? Could she even look upon him with affection?


He watched as his mother unfastened her blouse, and then took her breast out from her bra. With the last of her strength, she pressed him against her breast in a maternal effort to let him suckle.


….Mother….!! For one blessed moment, son and mother bonded, in one sacred, final moment of love.


There he would lay, cradled in her arms, nursing, until with the dawning of the day his flesh crumbled and turned to dust as the sunlight washed over him.


Love had finally come to him, in his final moments, and that’s all he had ever wanted.


After all, no one’s family is perfect.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *