I Almost Hurt Arthur—Until That Afternoon's Security Footage Told Me Otherwise.-3
Water Too Hot
"Is this temperature alright?" Marianne swirled her finger in the baby tub. Arthur lay naked in her arms, legs kicking air. "I’ll do it," I repeated. Ignoring me, she dipped a towel, meticulously washing his neck. "See? He loves Grandma’s baths." Certainty rang in her tone. Supporting his head, she rinsed his back. Arthur’s eyes narrowed contentedly. My lips parted—to remind her about gentle pat-drying for rashes—but the words died in my throat. Silently, I unfolded a clean towel. She took it, expertly wrapping Arthur, lifting him out, never glancing at my offering. My hands held only empty air.
The Missing Bottle
Six AM. Arthur cried. Eyes fluttering open, I reached for the bottle on the nightstand. Empty. The sterilizer beside it felt cold, dark. I pushed open our door. Marianne emerged from the kitchen humming softly, holding a steaming bottle. Seeing me, she stopped. "I warmed it." She offered it. I didn’t take it. "Sterilizer not running?" My voice raspy. "No need," she dismissed. "Had two clean ones left." Giving the bottle a shake: "Just needed warming." I stared at it. My temple throbbed. She bypassed my routine. Imposed hers. Without waiting, she turned towards the nursery. I stood empty-handed.
Intrusive Thoughts
Sunlight bathed Arthur’s face. Fed and alert, his dark eyes met mine. Beautiful. My finger brushed his soft cheek… then jerked back. Not because I shouldn’t touch—the doctor said I could. Because the thought returned. Always then. Arthur watched me, eyes deep pools. My finger hovered near his eyelid. Scratch down. The voice hissed. I snatched my hand back—too fast—nails biting my palm. Arthur squirmed, lips trembling. I stood abruptly. The chair scraped the floor. Scooping him up, I retreated to the bedroom. Locked the door. Slid down against it. Sat on the floor. Arthur wailed. Loudly. I held him. Shaking. Silently weeping. This isn't me. I didn't scratch.
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"Is this temperature alright?" Marianne swirled her finger in the baby tub. Arthur lay naked in her arms, legs kicking air. "I’ll do it," I repeated. Ignoring me, she dipped a towel, meticulously washing his neck. "See? He loves Grandma’s baths." Certainty rang in her tone. Supporting his head, she rinsed his back. Arthur’s eyes narrowed contentedly. My lips parted—to remind her about gentle pat-drying for rashes—but the words died in my throat. Silently, I unfolded a clean towel. She took it, expertly wrapping Arthur, lifting him out, never glancing at my offering. My hands held only empty air.
The Missing Bottle
Six AM. Arthur cried. Eyes fluttering open, I reached for the bottle on the nightstand. Empty. The sterilizer beside it felt cold, dark. I pushed open our door. Marianne emerged from the kitchen humming softly, holding a steaming bottle. Seeing me, she stopped. "I warmed it." She offered it. I didn’t take it. "Sterilizer not running?" My voice raspy. "No need," she dismissed. "Had two clean ones left." Giving the bottle a shake: "Just needed warming." I stared at it. My temple throbbed. She bypassed my routine. Imposed hers. Without waiting, she turned towards the nursery. I stood empty-handed.
Intrusive Thoughts
Sunlight bathed Arthur’s face. Fed and alert, his dark eyes met mine. Beautiful. My finger brushed his soft cheek… then jerked back. Not because I shouldn’t touch—the doctor said I could. Because the thought returned. Always then. Arthur watched me, eyes deep pools. My finger hovered near his eyelid. Scratch down. The voice hissed. I snatched my hand back—too fast—nails biting my palm. Arthur squirmed, lips trembling. I stood abruptly. The chair scraped the floor. Scooping him up, I retreated to the bedroom. Locked the door. Slid down against it. Sat on the floor. Arthur wailed. Loudly. I held him. Shaking. Silently weeping. This isn't me. I didn't scratch.
NEXT >>