by Michael Kelso
He staggered down the staircase. His clammy, pasty, hands sliding absently along the railing. His mind barely functioning, acting on instinct, he lumbered forward with a mission. He could still hear the wailing coming from the room he had just left. The mournful, incessant, scream of pain, barely registered in his fevered brain. It was because of him, and he was going to do something about it. That was his mission. He shuffled into the kitchen, looking over all the mallets and knives, until he found just the right thing. He prepared what he needed to silence the horrid din that assailed him. He looked up at the ceiling, toward the direction of the sound, with a gleam in his eye. Slowly he shuffled back toward the source of his pain, holding what he knew would immediately end this torment. Ascending the stairs with purpose, he turned into the room, and was assaulted by the deafening sound of a single piercing scream. He cringed, barely able to focus. Knowing the end was near, he crossed the room with the solution in hand, and bent down to the source of the screaming. Then picked up the baby, and stuck the bottle in her mouth.