Monday, March 23rd. 740 words. (DWOM)
He reached for the package, catching it by a corner and dragging it onto the newspaper. It moved even more now, if that were possible, as if it could tell what Gray intended. He wouldn’t be able to cut it like this - his eyes would betray him, he’d do the wrong thing. A moment passed and he decided he’d have to do it with his eyes closed, by touch. He picked up the smallest of the knives he’d brought with him and practiced against the fabric of his sweatshirt. The end of the blade was here, his hand was here, and this is how hard he’d have to press.
It was time. He closed his eyes and took the package in his hands, feeling it squirm. With his left hand he held it down, and with his right he brought the knife. The blade found resistance, and the package bucked against it. He held firm, and the serrated edges seemed to dig in by themselves. There, was that deep enough? He’d try it. He pulled the blade toward him, holding firm against the container, hoping it was slicing the thing open. Then he’d gone the whole length of it. He put aside the knife and opened his eyes.
The slice was deep enough, it seemed, to cut through the outer layer of the package. The cardboard layer, if there could be any kind of analogy. Beneath it, there was something else, a kind of padding. It was thick and gel-like, and somewhat see-through. He went for a different knife, but then whatever was inside started to push against the seam. Rising up from inside, he could see two tiny fists punch at the opening, struggling against the padding to get free. The fists were human, more than human. They belonged to infant hands. There was a child in the package, and it was trapped.
Gray sat with his mouth open, unsure of what to do. His mind was blank, and the only thing left of him was eyes. The knife lay impotent in his hand, and something inside of him was trying to get out, echoing what it saw. Let it out, let it out, let it out. Gray didn’t move. The fists pumped, softly at first, and then harder and harder. The padding wouldn’t hold, was in fact already beginning to rip apart. Don’t let it out, don’t let it out.
Then one of the fists tore through, gasping into the study with a distinctly wet POP. The hole got bigger, little arms pulling the seam apart just as Gray had imagined he would do, but from the outside.
A face appeared, small and scrunched with eyes shut tight, mouth sucking at the air as if it were a breast. It pulled itself free of the package, sliding onto the newspaper and laying there, panting. The package’s writhing became more free-form, and now Gray could see that it was inside out, and inside out again, getting smaller all the time. Then the package was gone.
The baby didn’t have any belly button, and it was covered in what looked like glowing petroleum jelly. Demonic afterbirth. Otherwise it looked perfectly normal to Gray. A newborn, human baby. A white baby. He took the towel he’d carried the knives in and covered it, feeling its warmth as he did so. It was a real child, and willingly or not, he had just become its keeper. Gray’s mind spun. He didn’t know what he had expected, but it hadn’t been this. He thought back to his bench at the train station, to the little brightly-colored man and the package he kept on delivering, day after day. Had they all been children? Had he sat there, thinking himself a hero, and allowed such a thing to happen? Gray didn’t want to consider it, but here, now - how could he think otherwise?
He pulled the infant to him, and cradled it in his arms. It reached for him, nuzzling its face into his armpit. He carried it to the bathroom and turned on the faucet, feeling for just the right temperature. The kitchen towel was soaked through with the sticky glowing gel, so he got rid of it. He pulled a fresh towel from the linen closet and dabbed a corner of it into the water. And he started cleaning the baby.
