It’s all his fault. If he hadn’t been around, the baby would still be here. The beautiful product of our flesh and blood.
It’s easy to smash his skull in with the baseball bat he kept around. And much less noisy than a gun. He’s heavy, and a mixture of blood and brains leaks out of the gaping wound on his skull from the living room down to my art studio.
He’s still heavy, and still bleeding, as I position him inside the metal frame for my latest masterpiece while waiting for the concrete to be useable. When it is, I get started with smothering his treacherous corpse in the thick, gritty substance. It mixes with his blood and my sweat. Hours, days pass while I repeat the process. Mix, slather, repeat.
It’s been a week. My studio smells of progress. Of blood. Of cement. Of art being created. The basic shape is done, the head of my masterpiece towering over me. I grab my paint and get to work. Using big strokes of the can, I get the entire thing covered from the top of its head as bulbous as my stomach was when I was carrying a new life, to the feet as large as the traitor’s were. The details take longer than the main part of the job, but when they’re done, I feel like crying. I gaze at my creation, marveling at its beauty. All of which came from my pain and suffering. When nature finally calls, I turn to leave my new baby.
I hear a sound like stones moving against each other.
And all goes dark.