demolished

infrastructure

you met him for the first time when you were seven.

your parents had been away again. naturally, you assumed they'd gone on another vacation without you, because you would be nothing more than a thorn in their side were you to tag along. you were no longer unfamiliar with such occasions. what baffled you was that it had only been two days—two lonely, neverending days, but you'd be dead before you admit it—which, per your keen observation, was entirely too short for an excursion. mummy had always enjoyed week-long relaxing trips. father loved spending days in the mountains. it was almost unthinkable for them to return this early, yet in the short moment it took for your family's car to rumble into the old stone driveway, you hoped.

you deluded yourself that they were coming back for you.

beside you, uncle materialised silently. you'd gotten so used to it that you barely even flinch anymore. you knew the kids on the other side of the hill still screamed bloody murder when uncle appeared that way. the frown on uncle's face was a complicated mixture of pensiveness and regret and something else more sophisticated than your young mind could comprehend. uncle was worried. uncle had never been a worrier. what could have gone so wrong to guarantee this particular brand of sentiment from him?

uncle bowed to look you in the eyes, and you wanted to cry.

the car door cracked ajar.

father came out first, a basket in hand and a dopey smile on his face, and you startled so violently because he had never been that openly happy in all the years you'd known him. in your memories, father struck you as the sternest, harshest person in the world; the smallest quirk of his lips came as rare as hen's teeth. he didn't ever seem pleased with your existence. uncle—no, rudy, he had always been rudy to you—took your left hand soundlessly, and you latched on nearly desperately, bracing yourself against whatever was about to unfurl.

to be honest, though; you didn't know what to expect.

father swirled around to open the door for mummy. she waddled out not unlike a newly hatched duckling, cradling a bundle of fabric in her arms, and there was unmistakeably a warm crinkle to her viridescent eyes. father stretched a toned bicep to steady her, and together they walked off to the house without sparing you a glance.

mummy, you called, but your voice stuck hopelessly where your larynx had been paralysed. pathetic, you thought, picking up your frantic pace. the tall grass of the front yard caught on your oxfords, grazing your ankles red. you could feel sandpaper scratching your sensitive throat and tears prickling at your eyeballs. you ran. mummy, wait for me, mummy, why are you home, what are you holding, mummy—

you saw it, then: a finger, peeking out from beneath folds of sky-coloured cotton.

everything clicked into place. the brief absence of your parents. the basket, probably full of baby supplies. the delight. the stagger in mummy's stance. the swaddle of blankets. terror gripped you in its icy hands, wholly and inescapably. you were being replaced. you were no longer necessary. there was a newborn in the household, far more vulnerable and far less fussy than you could ever dream to be. there was a newborn in the household who was so lovable they got both your parents to shower them with pure adoration, and you couldn't help the sudden, ferocious surge of jealousy clawing its way into your heart.

anger seized you.

oh, how you wanted to strangle that vile creature of hell. you would gladly take that fragile neck in between your tiny palms and you would squeeze the life out of the demon's spawn because how dare they rob you of your parents, your house, your love? how dare they steal mummy and father's fondness to keep as their own? how could your dearest pater and mater let them commit such a horrid crime without so much of a complaint?