He was harmless. He knew nothing of the world before him, yet still, he had broken hers. His soft little hands, the tiny, wet little orbs in his head; eyes, brown, like his fathers. The soft peach fuzz of hair on his head just barely sprouting into locks, it kept her up at night. He was her fourth child, her fourth small mouth to feed, and fourth reason to be kept up so late at night and awake so early in the morning.

Silently, he slept in his bassinet, his small eyes closed and lips puckered together beneath the blue ring of a hospital-brand pacifier. She sat on the sofa, a good five feet from his presence beneath the television above the sharp edges of the fireplace before him. Her other children had gone off to school, their father had taken them that morning, and so, just as it was every morning, it was just the two of them.

For years, it had been looming over her, boiling up every time those nine months would come and go in silence, leaving her mind with kisses of unholy thoughts and immortal sins as she’d sit on the bathroom floor crying, as her toddler, who was none the wiser, was left on the other side of the door asking for a bath. Or when she’d use the tweezers on her vanity to pick at the delicate, fragile eyelashes dangling from her face, or how, when night would come and the house would become shrouded in darkness, she’d remember the feeling of the delivery room.

The lights were bright, the table was cold, and her body was sweltering in a deep, heavy heat as her husband, camera to the ground, held his body in shock beside her. And despite the blue mask pinching at his nose, she could see the horror in his face, and she could hear his heart erupting from his chest with, thud, thud, thud. It was panicked, albeit mortified, but even then, it was calming. The doctor’s gloves, once white, turned red; the mucus and blood coating the baby had gotten all over them, all over the table, all over her. She couldn’t tell what haunted her more, her husband’s latexed hand squeezing her own, or the damp, shivering little body of her newborn in her arms hours later.

It was a disgusting, wonderful feeling, no matter how many times she had done it or how many children she had, she hated it, loved it.

But this new baby, it was unclean, unsanitary, dirty like how it got there, nothing like her home; its bleached floors and clear-package laced fridge sung of a good mind and calm and order, but this baby, it left her dirty.

It left her up at night, fantasizing about her husband spending his evenings with her, rather than with it, or her children wanting to sit with her, rather than it, or how, sometimes, when the backdoor would be open, she’d think of all the coyotes lurking in the woods beyond their backyard and how much time they would like to spend with it.

But there was no use, no matter how many times she bathed him, no matter how many times her husband would force her to sit down while he took her spot at the sink to wipe it down, no matter how many times she’d sit in the shower scrubbing at her skin until she’d turn so red she’d bleed and bust open scars and scabs, it was no use.

Sitting there, on the sofa, she watched its chest rise and fall, how its shallow, short breaths encapsulated her, drew her in, and brought her to her feet. For there was one method she had had yet to try, one that would nag at her whenever she’d sit to fold her children’s clothes or leak its way into her brain when she’d be washing dishes.

With both of her hands, she wrapped her arms around the baby, supporting its neck with her palm, and held it to her chest, she carefully maneuvered around the living room and entered the laundry room. 

The washer and dryer were two separate units, white, and as old as their home, but they worked, and worked well.

With a gentle hand, she removed his pajama, onesie, diaper, and carefully set the baby down, pressing its backside to the bottom of the washer as she used her right hand to hold it up, while her left fought the detergent bottle on the counter beside it.

And soon, with the soap cupped in her left hand, she carefully caressed the baby’s face, dragging her fingers through the soft tufts of hair and surrounding the soft, round edges of its face and body, and gently gave the belly a squeeze as she released it.

The soft coos had soon turned to nothing but a muffled static as she shut the lid, her fingers dragging across the top as she set the delicate cycle; small load.

Stepping back, she left the room and reapproached the couch. Laying on her back, her wet hand dangling over and onto the floor, she found her body relaxing and eyes closing at the soothing thud, thud, thud.