Present day-
Sam left, the thin wooden door slamming shut behind him as he went. Leaving me in the room alone with my Aunt and her unborn daughter cradled in her arms. The room smelt of musk and sour goat milk. My aunt held the plastic bottle up to the baby's lips and shook her head disappointedly when the baby stayed cold and still.
She rocked back in her chair and tested the milk on her thumb, "Sweetie?" She said, looking at me, "Would you mind heating the milk up? It seems to have gone cold." Her voice is husky, like a heavy smoker.
I take the bottle from her hand, and when I near the baby I can smell that it's already starting to rot, I cringe and scurry off to the kitchen.
I'm in my Aunt's house, its just like how I remember it from when I was little. Not that I came here usually, only to drop off a gift on holidays, or a monthly visit to check up on her. But now the house seemed different, I didn't look at it as the creepy house filled with mouldy foods, beetles and cob webs. This was now my salvation, the place I go to when I had no other. Aunt Ruth always welcomed me with open arms, never mentioning to any one that I came here. Not that she had anyone to mention it to. I've been staying here a month now, and even my friends and family know that I'm here, not that they care to drop by.
I stick the bottle into the microwave and press start, then busy myself in the kitchen. Scraping grease off rusty pans and washing day old cup cake crumbs from plates. When the microwave beeps, I find the plastic bottle slightly melted and the milk much to hot for a live baby. I bring her the milk anyway and she smiles pleasantly.
"Bed time dear!" She announces with authority in her voice.
"Its 6:00," I say, slightly confused.
But she waves me on anyways, convincing me that she must spiritually connect with her ancestors. She hands me the baby and asks me to set it in the crib in her bedroom. I shutter and cringe in revolt, terror and utter sadness as I balance the unborn baby on the palms of my hands and carry it upstairs with me. I set it in the crib, wishing it would shut its eyes, wishing it would look at peace. But the poor tormented infant soul won't be able to leave with Aunt Ruth holding it so tightly.
Once I'm in my room I sit cross-legged on the old beat-up love seat and blast the music from my ipod, into my ears, knowing that living with this lady probably wasn't healthy for me. But I had no choice, I couldn't go back home where my parents would drive me insane with arguments, as they choose my life. I turned up my ipod.
