It’s been three hundred days since the incident. No it was a birth, of a child and of the end of the world. Every parent wants their child to make their mark in history, but who expects to be assured of this with their first kid? Who finds out that their kid is the omen that brings the end of the world?
I remember rushing my wife to the hospital at two in the morning, after just getting home from a long shift at the mill, if I wasn’t so goddamn scared it would’ve been exciting. The doctors and nurses where amazing, I barely made it into the waiting room with empty luggage and a Lamaze mat before they had her in an examination room.
The head nurse would come in every twenty minutes, disappear under my wife’s gown and come back up with a new measurement and a big smile. After a couple of hours the doctor comes in when it gets good and takes over like he owned the place. After some immense pushing on my wife’s part there is a small cry, from the doctor.
The doctor holds up what should be my beautiful baby boy. This thing that he shows me is the size of a newborn but looks like something ancient and demonic. Its body is riddled with tufts of stiff fir and scares. Its shoulders and chest are dotted with what looks like stony calcifications and its head is lined with scales, or fingernails. The most disturbing image anyone can imagine gets worse when its milky white eyes peak out from under the scaly lids.
It looked over and pointed a deformed finger at me. Then, with the voice of Beelzebub, it spoke, “la última caída del sol llegará en mil días. El cielo se oscurece y las estrellas desaparecerán de los cielos, se oye el aullido escalofriante de su universo, ya que está de luto por su muerte.”
It cackled, showing its snarled teeth, and died. Then its chest split open and the innards spewed out like tendrils. The doctor dropped it and looked horrified at my wife. Her eyes were turned up into her head and blood pooled over her chest. She convulsed so hard it shook the bed, her body contorted into an unnatural form. The more she folded the louder her squeals became until finally she, like our demon, died.
Seven hundred more days and I can forget.
-Ricardo
Thought of a Thinker 