Negative Of Yellow

DISCLAIMER: an experiment writing about darker subjects... let's see how bad it can get. give it a chance. i promise i'm not crazy.

- ant

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I smooth a hand over his soft thigh as he lays there in my bathtub on his side, exhausted with blank, unseeing eyes, and I admire his small, ravaged body. I admire the way I've made him change, the way I've ruined him, twisted and warped him, the skin on his belly looser, his hips softer, his chest swollen so he can feed the life we've created.

He's no longer the young, lithe boy he once was, filled with spunk and life.

Vic was his name, I learned. I used to watch him through the fence, watched how he ran across the green field, chasing after, then kicking the ball.

If you saw him now, you'd never guess he was once on the soccer team.

I watched him laughing with his teammates after, walking within the group, his arms thrown around his friends, his brother, how he tilted his head back when he laughed so easily, his eyes shut, capturing the setting afternoon sun with the curve of his neck, his beautiful tawny skin more golden than anything.

When I first captured him, oh how he kicked and struggled; oh how he screamed and cried, how it made my skin crawl with sick excitement; I almost miss it. He had quite the voice, you know? Much too loud for a boy his size.

So I shut him up.

I pressed the cloth to his nose and watched his eyes roll up into his head— I remember the way my stomach churned with glee, watching his eyes roll up like that, feeling his little body go limp in my arms. I still reminisce about the day I resolved to make him mine. I'm still proud of myself for pulling it off, because he's only ever gotten more perfect.

I wouldn't change the world for the way he is now, so perfectly, perfectly quiet, so calm and accepting, so completely under my control.

So completely mine.

It took a lot of work to get here, you know? It took him years to warm up to me.

If you were with me right now, observing this exact scene, you wouldn't be able to tell if he was alive or not. But only I, having watched him so often, having pushed him to this state that only I could push him to: only I can tell he's still alive, with the way he's ever so shallowly breathing, the meager rise and fall of his little chest, his narrow ribcage, my beautiful boy.

"You've done it again," I say gently, swiping the long, sweaty strands of hair from his forehead, and pressing a kiss to his hot skin. "Good job."

I reach down into the tub, admiring my creation, swiping away the gore covering its eyes, its face. It's silent, just like its mother; no crying, only shallow breathing, like it hasn't noticed it's no longer in the womb. I pick it up carefully, supporting its limp neck, and I lay it on his chest. His blank eyes come back to life just a bit, a soft glint, and he glances down, instinctively holding the tiny creature to his chest, and shuts his eyes, sighing. It grasps gently onto his finger, and I smile at him, proud of what we've made together, but he doesn't smile back, doesn't say anything.