Devil Baby

She looked down at its squirming face, nose pinched to its lips.
A grimace that she knew would soon erupt into an almighty shriek.

Pushing it around all day.
Its heavy.
Its fat legs kicking the edges of its pram; its oval cocoon.

It screams, it screams.

Spittle forming in the corner of its mouth, gurgling its own unformed profanities.
Slipping into a maniacal cackle, lapsing into a hysterical moment of pleasure, enjoying the slow torture of its creator, only to momentarily return to the screams.

“Why are you shouting?!” The inquisition was futile.

It gargles.
It cannot express itself.
Its plastic pacifier repositioned by the mother only to be spat out again in retaliation.

I bought it shoes, but it screams.
Oh, it screams.
It screams, screams.
Screams that ring through the street painting it purple, green and red.
A passer-by recoils into the fur of their hood.

The child is turning red.
The child is turning red.
It starts arching its back.
Boiling.
The baby’s fury is boiling its own organs.
The baby is churning its own brain into a gory butter.

“What do you want?”

Blending its own emotions.
An unsettled pile of hokum.
Its eyes rolling back into its skull, clenching its tiny fists.
Gurgling.
Struggling, to move past its present state.
Its lost.
Flailing arms exacerbating its body
Burying it deeper in its torment.
Its empty mind filling with heat.

The fat rises to the top, a silky layer of oily grease.
The particles separate.
Where is the glue?
Can it be fixed?
It screams.
It screams.

The kettle has boiled.