Baby in a Vial
The day I created life at the job site
I often look in at the boy and wonder where he came from. A feral child, almost evil. My own son, separated from me by a steel door, too rabid to let loose. I push platters of raw meat through the mail flap and watch as he rips apart the flesh and devours the fat. He frightens me — makes me sick, even; but I love him. How could I not? I released him from my body, red in the face and straining to death. A man who got pregnant, and without a partner. Every media mogul called my phone, crowds made a settlement on my lawn, I lost all my friends. All because I drank the vial.
The vial, a small glass thing probably centuries old, most likely from an asteroid. At least, that’s my assumption. It dug itself into the shallow soil beneath our local mall. Of course, I found it before the mall was built.
Construction jobs are made more difficult by the complexities of the land. Before the plans for the mall could be finalized, I was tasked with surveying the lot where it was to be built. A spacious pasture of tall grasses and moist ground. At the edge of the area, where the woods began, I dug to find the length and depth of the roots running into the meadow.
As I was shoveling another pile of dirt onto a mound, the vial rolled onto the grass, glinting in the sunlight. I picked it up, marveled at its craftsmanship, and fingered the cork. It was clear and cold, like spring water. My tongue was filling my mouth and sweat glistened on my arms. I had to take a drink — I had to.
I flicked the cork onto the dirt mound. The liquid froze in my throat, then burned its way down into my stomach. It felt mildly corrosive. I winced, heaved, settled, kept shoveling.
The glass is still in my house, on the mantle; it seems valuable. For a while I thought nothing of it. The vial must’ve filled with brackish water after sulking in the marsh for so long. It wasn’t until my abdomen grew beyond my belt buckle that I realized something was terribly wrong. I quit beer, so that wasn’t it. Each morning and night I turned side-to-side before my tall mirror and gasped. Soon I was huge. Eventually I visited my doctor — I was pregnant.
Beyond all odds, I gave birth to a thing, and not so human as to be recognizable by anyone else. But he’s my child. I harbor him from the world. He’s stuck with me, and I’m stuck with him.
I’m responsible for the little demon.
