Frankenbabie

science and sensibility

Uzair Ahmed
Lit Up
5 min readJul 24, 2019

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It is one thing to pine for lack of colour; monotone has its melancholy, and its silence. It is another to be floating in grey, without contrast, in the muted angst of a thousand thoughts unable to depart.

It is in this numb dejection that I sit in a room without corners. I am on a couch looking at nothing. The same concrete brickwork runs all around the room. The room and its gloom do not bother me, nor is it oppressively small. Some manner of apparatus stands behind the couch, it’s always been there, and I have no impulse to address it. There is an empty doorway to my left, and perhaps a window to my right. But the window looks at nothing. Whereas, the doorway is my escape, there is darkness beyond but in its promise of salvation it may as well be shone bright. I have been here before. I am clearly familiar. But I am desperate to leave.

They left me here. Why me? We were all in it together, yet I am the prisoner of our labours. What for, have they even departed at this late hour? As my growing dread threatens to seize my limbs, I eye the doorway once more with longing. No, I am duty bound. It may not seem so now, but it was great what we had set out to do. We had succeeded. Our triumph rings hollow now as I keep watch over our prize and bask in its horror.

It fumbles and fusses next to me on the couch. It bounces playfully on its bottom as it lurches with its hands outstretched, entreating me to reach out and hold it close. I make no acknowledgement of its presence, except to keep it in view out of the corner of my eye. It is a spectre now and that it shall remain. Facing it would make it real. I am too frightened to move, anyway.

It rises to its feet gingerly. My blood runs chill and I begin to shake as it begins to make its ungainly way to me, propping itself up against the back of the couch. I am forced to look the child — no, the abomination — in its face as it closes in. Mottled, grey skin. Empty, black eyes. And the simple knowledge that, just a while ago, it was dead.

Its chubby little fingers reach out and I pull my eyes shut as their cold softness caresses my cheek. It topples clumsily in my lap and I instinctively bolster it in my arms, lest it fall. It is done now. I am holding it.

An impulse to hold it close is bit back by the horror of its husk. It feels like cradling a limb that has lost all feeling, hanging on like dead weight. I compromise and hold the child against myself, resting its head against my shoulder so I don’t have to look at it. Stupid. Beyond the bloodcurdling intimacy I inadvertently invoke, I am also horribly aware of how close to my vitals the monster is.

I spring to my feet immediately. I can’t wait anymore. I head out the doorway. I am in a vast circular shaft — to the dimension of the room above. Therein is an abyss of unknown depth. The darkness permits no fathom. I hurry down a few steps of the spiral stairs that hug the wall, and like a ship taking water, cast off my weight into the abyss.

Frightened, disgusted, and not the least bit relieved, I hurry back through the deafening silence. My mind is already replaying the darkness enveloping the child’s pale form. I burst into the room before I, too, am overtaken and relief finally washes over. I bask in the lightness. Even the dreary room seems marginally vibrant now. I return to the couch and my brain is buzzing with unchecked thoughts. I might as well have been flitting through channels on a TV.

Before long a disquiet begins to grow in me. I cast a look around the room. There is something I could be doing. But there really is nothing. I feel like I am ignoring a fresh stain that I could deal with now, but I won’t. Frustration and angst.

No! There is nothing! It is only boredom -

My head snaps around instinctively. The seat on the couch next to me. Behind its back. I look around hoping to catch some furtive shadow disappear behind the brass mass of apparatus. There is nothing. I am alone, I tell myself.

Whispers and stirrings begin to plague and fester as I struggle to occupy my teeming brain.

What happened to it?

- To what? What are you talking about?

Did the fall kill it?

- It made no sound, there was no bottom!

Can it die?

- I am not going to dwell on this!

Will it remember?

Cold sweats begin anew, retracing old courses. Dark phantoms scurry about the edge of my sight. My ears strain to pick up susurrations I could swear I thought I heard. Wild fantasies of its tiny vengeful form crawling up the steps play out in my head. I had done wrong.

When? When the child was reanimated? Or when it was repudiated?

As I languish in a labyrinth of morality, my gaze is drawn again and again to the doorway. The blank cut-out that’d been my respite before, was now haunting me. At every glance, I expect to see the child’s rickety form appear on the black canvas. There is no door, no barrier I can place between me and my fate. It is coming for me.

I dare not approach the doorway. It is the only way out yet leaving does not occur to me. The others will be back, I know not when, but I can wait. Yes. I will wait patiently. I am rid of my sin. My crime will not become me.

I close my eyes and breathe out slowly. I am willing my heart to pace itself, when I feel a depression on the couch next to me. I turn to see nothing at first. Then, the child. It has climbed up on the back of the couch and descends on me: face contorted with rage, and a swiping hand swung on a crooked limb.

Image by author (Uzair)

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Uzair Ahmed
Lit Up
Writer for

Short stories. Embellished dreams. Excerpts from the journal.