“Hush little baby, don’t say a word, Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird,” Mother sings, cradling little Mina in her arms. The small infant is sound asleep, her thumb resting in her mouth. Mother sets her back into the crib. She smiles at her sleeping child, briefly glancing over at the eight empty cribs next to Mina’s.
Mina is Mother’s ninth child.
Over the past few years, Mother had given birth to many children, all of which had mysteriously passed according to their birthdays. The eldest child, Anthony, died on the first day of January; Blaine, her second child, died on the second day following her birth. Since that day, each of Mother’s children seemingly died, one by one in a loose pattern.
Mother sighs and walks out of the long hallway of cribs. She strolls through the gloomy house, decorated with Victorian portraits of her ancestors. Thunder crashes outside the small home as Mother makes her way to the living room. Father sits in his rocking chair, moving steadily back and forth. The fireplace crackles under the sound of the approaching storm. He slows the chair’s consistent rhythm upon the appearance of Mother.
“Is number nine asleep?” Father questions. She nods slowly before having a seat on the couch.
“I would appreciate it if you didn’t refer to our children as numbers,” Mother says, twiddling her thumbs. Father takes a sip of his tea.
“First of all, I refer to our only child as a number because I have forgotten how many you have given birth to. Second, may I remind you of the sickly curse afflicting our children? They fall asleep dead in our arms every single time, and the ninth of this month is upon us.”
“This child will not die. I guarantee it!” Mother yells. Her fist collides with the armrest of her chair. She takes a deep breath and puts her hand on top of Father’s, locking her saddened eyes with his dreary ones. A small tear drops onto her hand as she grasps Father’s palms even tighter. Father wipes her eyes with a tissue, then gets up from the rocking chair and walks into his office, leaving Mother sitting alone.
In the darkened room, Father turns on the table lamp before sitting down. Thunder crashes outside. The little house shakes in its tremor. Father bites his lip before flipping to the most recent page in his journal. August 8th, it reads, printed in a neat, small font.
It was the day Leo died, their last child before Mina.
Mother was already pregnant with Mina at the time and was resting in her bedroom while Father watched his son collapse before his own eyes. He shook Mother awake, directing her towards the darkened hallway of their children’s cribs. However, it was too late, for Leo lay there pale and blue in the wake and terror of his inevitable death. Mother sobbed, crumbling to the floor. Father stood there, his eyes wandering around the room before resting upon an empty syringe in front of Mother’s feet.
Had Mother known that I killed Leo? Did Mother also know about Anthony and Blaine? Did she know what happened to her other children? Father thought upon seeing the syringe.
The next morning, the couple set Leo’s lifeless body into a small coffin, laying him to rest in their yard. All eight of their children lay in a row, each marked with a singular tombstone. Father glimpsed at Mother after he laid Leo’s coffin into the dry soil. She was sobbing, tears rolling down her face, causing Father to grin wickedly at her pain.
In his office, Father smiles, closing his journal. He opens his drawer to find the empty syringe. He grasps it tightly and fills it with bleach, a glinting object catching the corner of his eye. He sets the needle in his pocket and reaches inside the drawer, revealing a beautifully sharpened cleaver. The corners of his mouth curve upwards.
Now Mother will no longer get in the way, he thinks. Father closes the drawers, and with the knife in one hand, leaves his office, never to return again.
Mother sits in the living room, her gaze fixated on the glistening fire. The room is dark as Mother rocks in her chair back and forth. She slows the chair’s quick rhythm upon the appearance of Father.
“I presume you were in your study logging your day into your journal?” Mother asks, turning her attention towards Father.
“Yes, my report for today was quite intricate. I was rather intrigued by one of my recent findings,” Father nonchalantly replies, walking towards Mother in an adagio motion.
“Oh really. Perhaps you could share your findings with me,” Mother says before continuing to rock in her chair. Father’s breath quickens. He drags his feet towards Mother’s chair, raising the dagger above her head. He stops.
“Mother, have you ever thought about killing our children?” He asks, slowly lowering his dagger.
“Why no. Why would you ask such a thing?” Mother hesitates as she slows down her rocking once more.
“It’s just — I noticed a peculiar object when Leo died last year. A syringe I believe,” Father says, resting his hand on Mother’s shoulder.
“Well, isn’t that rather odd,” she says. “Was it perhaps the same syringe you used to kill our other children?” Mother questions. She rises from her chair and turns to face Father. Her eyes narrow on the cleaver in Father’s hands.
Surprised, he stutters, “How long have you known?” He begins walking towards his wife. Mother backs towards the fireplace.
“Oh, you thought I didn’t know?” Mother chuckles. “You really believed that you were killing my children without me knowing?” Mother grins this time. Father is stunned; his eyes narrow in confusion. “You only did what I wanted you to do. You did the job so that I wouldn’t have to do it,” Mother states. Her back is inches away from the fireplace. Father raises his knife.
“You tricked me!” He screams before lunging towards her. Mother swiftly dodges his attack, watching her husband dive headfirst into the scalding hot fires. His cleaver is lost in the flames. She pushes him further, his screams music to her ears. In the distance, Mina cries, waking from her slumber. Father drops to the floor, his face and body covered in burns. Mother smiles.
The grandfather clock chimes, signaling midnight. It is the ninth day of the month. Father lies motionless on the living room floor. Mother lowers herself to him, running her hands through the burnt ends of his hair.
“After years of forcing me to love you and thinking each child I bore wasn’t yours, you don’t even get to see this last child die before your own eyes. And this time, the child was actually your own,” Mother chuckles. Mother reaches for the syringe in Father’s pocket and walks through the gloomy house to greet her awoken child.
The thunder claps and the house shakes in its wake. Mina’s cries grow louder as Mother approaches the hall. She stares at Mina’s soft, beautiful face, admiring her daughter’s every feature. Mother reaches into her crib, lifting the baby into her arms. Mother rocks her back and forth and back and forth and sings.
“Hush little baby, don’t say a word, Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.” Mina cuddles up in Mother’s arms. Mother kisses her forehead, and with one hand, injects the bleach into Mina’s arm. The baby’s cries slowly halt as the house grows quiet again.