cademia023
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r/nosleep
There's Something Wrong With my Child by reddit user u/lifeisstrangemetoo
“It’s a monster, Daddy. We should throw it in the trash.”
I stared at my daughter, speechless. Did she really just say that?
“Honey, this is your baby brother,” I said. “He’s not a monster, and you shouldn’t say things like that.”
My daughter just stared at me, blankly.
“Okay, Daddy,” she said. Without a word further she turned and bolted out of the room. I could feel myself frown. I had read about this in the parenting books. The older sibling feels resentful of the attention that a new baby gets, and acts out. I was sure that was all that was happening.
“Is Ellen okay?” asked the voice of my wife from behind me.
I turned around.
“Why do you ask?” I said.
My wife, Mary, was already up and around the house just a few days after giving birth. She was so strong. She walked into the room and stared down at the baby, and sighed.
“She just said the strangest thing,” said my wife. I waited for her to go on, but she didn’t.
“Well, can’t be worse than what she just said to me,” I replied. “She said that Jonathan was a monster, and that we should throw him in the trash.”
My wife shook her head sadly.
“She said the same thing to me,” she replied. “And she said ‘The monster’s fooled Daddy, but he can’t fool me. Can you believe that?”
An uneasy feeling of cold crept up the back of my neck.
“We should sit her down and have a talk,” I said.
My wife opened her mouth to reply, but yawned instead.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “It’s late.”
“Yeah, let’s go to bed.”
What’s that racket?
I awoke confused. I turned on my phone screen to check the time. 2:23 AM. The cloud of sleep slowly dissipated, and I realized that the sound was Jonathan crying in his crib. As I pushed myself out of bed and into my houseshoes, a second realization hit me.
The crying isn’t coming from his room. And, it sounds…wrong.
I looked down at my wife.
Let her sleep. She’s earned it.
I followed the sound downstairs, into the kitchen. The crying was muffled, and it was hard to place the source. I stopped dead and strained my ears. It seemed like it was coming from the sink. I approached the sink and stared at the drain, frowning.
It’s a monster, Daddy. We should throw it in the trash. No, she wouldn’t do that. Would she?
I opened the cupboard door, and, to my horror, discovered my son Jonathan in the trash, lying on bed of coffee grounds and banana peels.
Oh my god.
I pulled him out of the trash and gently brushed off as much of the damp coffee grounds as I could, while rocking him back and forth and gently reciting “Hush Little Baby,” his favorite song. Soon, he had drifted off.
“You should have left him there,” came a voice from behind me.
I turned to see my daughter, Ellen.
“Why would you do this?” I whisper-yelled, careful not to wake my wife.
Ellen only shrugged.
“Monsters belong in the trash,” she said. Her jaw was clenched, her nostrils flared. “I won’t let it hurt your and Mommy.”
“Honey? What’s going on?” I instantly recognized the groggy voice of my wife, and turned to face her.
She looked at me, then the baby. Her eyes grew wide. I thought it was because of how dirty Jonathan was. But I was wrong. It was because she saw the knife. She rushed forward, brushing past me in an attempt to put herself between our daughter and the baby.
But Ellen was too small and too quick, and she easily dodged my wife’s bear hug. I instinctually jerked away, and the kitchen knife only grazed my arm. Mary tackled Ellen to the ground and wrestled the knife out of her hand, throwing it aside so that it skittered across the tile floor. Her face was red, and strands of hair stuck to her sweaty forehead.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she demanded. Ellen said nothing.
Jonathan began to cry, and I looked down at him to inspect for damage. Blood was leaking from a cut on his forehead. Without thinking, I reached down to wipe it off, but immediately jerked my hand back, as if I had touched a hot stovetop.
I held my hand up to my face in horror, and watched the smoke rise as my son’s blood burned through my fingertips, down to the bone. The acrid smell of burning flesh filled the house. My wife, my daughter and I locked eyes, and froze.
There's Something Wrong With my Child by reddit user u/lifeisstrangemetoo
“It’s a monster, Daddy. We should throw it in the trash.”
I stared at my daughter, speechless. Did she really just say that?
“Honey, this is your baby brother,” I said. “He’s not a monster, and you shouldn’t say things like that.”
My daughter just stared at me, blankly.
“Okay, Daddy,” she said. Without a word further she turned and bolted out of the room. I could feel myself frown. I had read about this in the parenting books. The older sibling feels resentful of the attention that a new baby gets, and acts out. I was sure that was all that was happening.
“Is Ellen okay?” asked the voice of my wife from behind me.
I turned around.
“Why do you ask?” I said.
My wife, Mary, was already up and around the house just a few days after giving birth. She was so strong. She walked into the room and stared down at the baby, and sighed.
“She just said the strangest thing,” said my wife. I waited for her to go on, but she didn’t.
“Well, can’t be worse than what she just said to me,” I replied. “She said that Jonathan was a monster, and that we should throw him in the trash.”
My wife shook her head sadly.
“She said the same thing to me,” she replied. “And she said ‘The monster’s fooled Daddy, but he can’t fool me. Can you believe that?”
An uneasy feeling of cold crept up the back of my neck.
“We should sit her down and have a talk,” I said.
My wife opened her mouth to reply, but yawned instead.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “It’s late.”
“Yeah, let’s go to bed.”
What’s that racket?
I awoke confused. I turned on my phone screen to check the time. 2:23 AM. The cloud of sleep slowly dissipated, and I realized that the sound was Jonathan crying in his crib. As I pushed myself out of bed and into my houseshoes, a second realization hit me.
The crying isn’t coming from his room. And, it sounds…wrong.
I looked down at my wife.
Let her sleep. She’s earned it.
I followed the sound downstairs, into the kitchen. The crying was muffled, and it was hard to place the source. I stopped dead and strained my ears. It seemed like it was coming from the sink. I approached the sink and stared at the drain, frowning.
It’s a monster, Daddy. We should throw it in the trash. No, she wouldn’t do that. Would she?
I opened the cupboard door, and, to my horror, discovered my son Jonathan in the trash, lying on bed of coffee grounds and banana peels.
Oh my god.
I pulled him out of the trash and gently brushed off as much of the damp coffee grounds as I could, while rocking him back and forth and gently reciting “Hush Little Baby,” his favorite song. Soon, he had drifted off.
“You should have left him there,” came a voice from behind me.
I turned to see my daughter, Ellen.
“Why would you do this?” I whisper-yelled, careful not to wake my wife.
Ellen only shrugged.
“Monsters belong in the trash,” she said. Her jaw was clenched, her nostrils flared. “I won’t let it hurt your and Mommy.”
“Honey? What’s going on?” I instantly recognized the groggy voice of my wife, and turned to face her.
She looked at me, then the baby. Her eyes grew wide. I thought it was because of how dirty Jonathan was. But I was wrong. It was because she saw the knife. She rushed forward, brushing past me in an attempt to put herself between our daughter and the baby.
But Ellen was too small and too quick, and she easily dodged my wife’s bear hug. I instinctually jerked away, and the kitchen knife only grazed my arm. Mary tackled Ellen to the ground and wrestled the knife out of her hand, throwing it aside so that it skittered across the tile floor. Her face was red, and strands of hair stuck to her sweaty forehead.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she demanded. Ellen said nothing.
Jonathan began to cry, and I looked down at him to inspect for damage. Blood was leaking from a cut on his forehead. Without thinking, I reached down to wipe it off, but immediately jerked my hand back, as if I had touched a hot stovetop.
I held my hand up to my face in horror, and watched the smoke rise as my son’s blood burned through my fingertips, down to the bone. The acrid smell of burning flesh filled the house. My wife, my daughter and I locked eyes, and froze.
