Week 25: The Scream

 



Was that the door? Not to mind. I’m in the warmth. No need for me to go outside. Winter won’t touch me here. The heating is on. My uncle’s wearing a warm jumper. And I’m nestled on my uncle’s shoulder. Snug as a bug in a rug. I like my uncle’s shoulder. It’s a good shoulder. One to lean on, not to cry on. I won’t be sad here. 

This is the life. Thumb in. Eyes closed. A fine place to rest my head. No need to move for a bit. I stay here. Stay here until my mum gives me my dream feed. Then, I’ll be parceled in my babygrow, delivered to sleep. 

I can’t get comfortable. I’ve lost my thumb. Each time I try and put it in my mouth, it comes loose. Feeling a bit hot under the collar now. Haven’t smelt my mum in a while.

Where is she? It’s not winter in here. It’s summer. And the temperature is rising. The sun is in my babygrow. Burning up now. There’s no cost-cutting here. The heating is on high. If you can’t stand the heat, get off the shoulder.

I’m squirming now. I’m writhing. Kicking against my uncle. Scrabbling for my mum. I haven’t heard her in so long. I haven’t smelt her in an eternity. Where’s my mummy?

Mother, mother, why have you forsaken me?

THE DEVIL HAS ME NOW. ETERNAL FIRES RAGE ALL AROUND MY BODY. FIRE AND BRIMSTONE CURSES RAIN DOWN ON MY UNCLE. MY SCREAMS ARE A CHORUS OF DAMNED SOULS. WILHELM SCREAM. MUNCH’S SCREAM. WES CRAVEN’S SCREAM. SCREAM. SCREAM. SCREAM.

Oh, was that my mummy’s voice? That feels like my mummy’s shoulder. I can smell her again. Thumb in. I’m as right as rain.


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