Breathe
What am I supposed to do? She�s never been like this before. I�m going insane. Wails, howls, screams. She�s gone through them all. Why won�t she stop?
Just breathe.
The walls soak up her cries like a sponge then fire them back into my ears like bullets. Even hen she stops I can still hear it. Echoes, shadows of sound that lurk in the corners, ready to pounce when all else is silent.
Breathe.
At first, it didn�t matter. I hugged her, soothed her, told her it was okay. She kept crying. I kissed the tears away. She kept crying. I consoled her. She kept crying.
Just breathe.
I got confused. She�d never cried this much before. She wouldn�t stop. I asked her, begged her. I pleaded. I yelled. I screamed. She kept crying. I went away but it didn�t matter. I could still here those cries. The house is so small. The walls are so thin. She kept crying. After a while I cried too. I didn�t know what to do.
Breathe.
She�s still crying. It�s hurting my head. Like needles. Like knives. Like bullets aimed right at my head. Ricochets of noise in my ears.
Just breathe.
It�s been so long. There�s no peace. Nothing is still, or resting, or silent. I can�t stand this. Can�t take it anymore. I want to pick up the pieces, my shattered head from the floor. I need to put head back where it belongs. Put the pieces of the puzzle back together. Take back my sanity.
Breathe.
The cries grow louder as I walk toward her. Her tiny face is red, scrunched up, pathetic. She�s run out of tears. All she can do is belt out cry after howl after wail after scream. Her body is like a tight ball of pink skin and piercing noise. One final step and I�m by her side, hands on the edge of her crib. I smile but she doesn�t notice. It�s a small, pained smile. She reaches out her arms, still sobbing. I bend down and pick her up.
Just breathe.
One last try. I hug her to me, kiss her, tell her it�s okay. She keeps crying. Right in my ear. My head explodes in fire and I snap. No more hugs. No more kisses. No more �Mr. Nice-Guy.� She deserves this.
Breathe.
I hold her at arms length and shake her, hard enough for her teeth to rattle and her head to� it�s like a glass jar filled with water. Back and forth, like a rag doll. I shake until my arms hurt, until my mind collapses in on itself and I can�t feel anything. It must be empty.
Just breathe.
It was her. She did this. She smashed my head up, shattered it, made my mind fall into an abyss. She deserves this. It�s her fault. She�s quiet. She�s quiet.
Breathe.
Her eyes are like blank pools of frigid water. I drop her back onto the mattress. She lies there, silent, staring. Her tiny chest moves up and down, quicker, faster. It�s like panic. Desperation. I walk away.
Just breathe.
The house is quiet now. The walls are walls again. The last piece of the puzzle clicks back into place. I sit on the blue chair and pick up my book.
Breathe.
I don�t think I�ll come back next time. Babysitting sucks.