Let The Dying Baby Sleep

From the first afternoon the Bradfords dragged me back to their gated suburban estate, I became the family’s pet freak—the walking, babbling joke of their high-society circle because of my so-called "infantile syndrome." I had to be coaxed and spoon-fed by three rotating housekeepers just to swallow a meal. I couldn’t step down a single flight of stairs on my own, whimpering until my father lifted me. I even threw myself onto Sabrina’s prized golden retriever, dragging my limp weight over the poor dog’s back to use him like a pony. My family loathed every breath I took. At a black-tie charity gala, my biological mother broke down in front of the cameras, sobbing to her socialite friends that giving birth to such a defective, shameless creature was the single greatest stain on her pedigree. Sabrina—the daughter they raised for twenty-one years while I was lost—wept into her silk handkerchief, whispering that I was doing it on purpose just to torment her. My older brother, Connor, sneered as he deliberately dumped a porcelain cup of scalding tea across my bare feet. "What kind of backwoods hick acts like a fragile little doll?" he spat. "Playing helpless just to beg for attention—why don't you do everyone a favor and drop dead?" I stared down at my blistered, angry-red skin. All I could manage was a tight, childlike whimper, clutching at my own knees, begging for someone to hold me. None of them knew. None of them knew that years ago, when I tumbled off a ravine in the rural backwoods, an unlicensed clinic pumped me full of improper, lethal dosages of hormonal drugs to mask the damage. The treatment ravaged my neuromuscular system and rotted my organs from the inside out. Now, whenever I tried to exert force like a normal adult, every muscle fiber in my body tore in blinding agony. I wasn’t playing a delicate princess. I was physically incapable of surviving my own weight. And this morning, a quiet specialist told me my internal organs had reached total, irreversible failure. I had three days left. At most. Since death was waiting at the end of the week anyway, I decided I might as well make my final hours comfortable. At dinner, Mother shoved my plate away with open revulsion. "No one is spoon-feeding you tonight. Starve if you want to." I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry for a bottle or beg for a lap. Instead, I dragged my useless legs toward the foyer, crawled into the adult-sized specialized stroller I kept by the coat rack, and pulled the quilt all the way over my head. "Fine. Baby won't eat," I murmured from under the dark floral fabric, my voice thin, sweet, and airy. "Not like baby has much time left anyway. It's soft in here. Good place to lie down and wait to die. Mind your step when you walk past, okay? Don't make too much noise on baby’s way out." … The dining room dropped into an immediate, suffocating silence. Then came the violent crash of fine china shattering against the hardwood. "Willa Bradford! Have you completely lost your mind?!" Mother stood beside the dining table, her entire body trembling with rage. "Giving birth to a shameless, deranged lunatic like you is the ultimate curse on this family!" She rounded on the housekeeper, veins showing in her neck. "Take her! Wheel her outside—dump her straight into the kennel out back!" "If she refuses to feed herself like a human being, let her sleep in the dirt and fight the dog for kibble!" The stroller lurched violently. The housekeeper shoved me down the hallway, through the French doors, and out onto the wet patio. The rain was coming down in sheets. The air around the covered run smelled of wet fur and damp cedar shavings. Connor marched out after us under a black golf umbrella, his face dark as a storm. He planted a heavy boot onto the front wheel of my stroller, kicking it hard against the stone pavers. "Aren't you delicate, Willa? Need someone to hold your hand every second?" He looked down at me, disgust dripping from every syllable. "You sleep out here tonight. Let’s see if a night in the cold cures your little princess act." I didn’t answer. Slowly, painstakingly, I peeled back the damp quilt and peeked out at the thick straw bedding piled inside the dog’s shelter. Years of muscle wasting meant that even turning my neck sent white-hot spikes down my spine. But that bed of cedar shavings looked thick. Pillow-soft. "Oh, wow," I breathed. I rolled myself out of the stroller, tumbling down onto the gravel, and dragged my chest forward until I tumbled headfirst into the shelter. "Baby actually likes it here," I whispered, resting my head against the golden retriever’s warm, heavy flank. The dog gave a low whine, licking my ear. "The straw is so much softer than the bed upstairs. Baby's very happy with her new little grave. Thank you, Connor." Connor’s jaw went slack, the veins in his temples throbbing with fury. "You are utterly, hopelessly pathetic." He turned on his heel and walked away, taking the umbrella with him. Freezing drops of mist drifted into the kennel, settling on my skin. I curled closer to the dog's ribcage, feeling the thready, stuttering beat of my own heart. Three days. I could endure anything for three days. "Willa, why must you constantly hurt Mom like this?" A soft, mournful voice drifted down from above. Sabrina stood just outside the kennel, holding an umbrella, her designer trench coat pristine. She was the family’s crown jewel—the daughter they had cherished for twenty-one years. "Please get up," Sabrina pleaded, loud enough for anyone inside the house to hear. "The neighbors can see through the hedges. The Bradfords can’t bear this kind of humiliation." She crouched, reaching a manicured hand into the cedar bedding as if to haul me to my feet. Her long acrylic nails sank viciously into the soft, unpadded flesh of my inner arm. That specific nerve pathway was already in the middle of a violent spasm. The blinding, sudden shock tore through my system; my arm jerked back in an uncontrollable physiological reflex. That tiny, pathetic shudder was all Sabrina needed. "Ah!" She let out a theatrical shriek and threw herself backward into the mud, landing on her hip with a wet splash. The patio doors flew open instantly. My parents and Connor charged into the downpour. They didn’t spare a single glance at the kennel. They swarmed Sabrina, lifting her from the mud with frantic, trembling hands. "What happened?! Why did you go near that lunatic?!" Mother cried, her eyes reddening with protective terror. Sabrina leaned heavily into Connor’s chest, tears mixing artistically with the rain on her cheeks. "I just... I felt so awful seeing Willa sleep in the kennel. I wanted to help her up. But she snapped... she told me I stole her life, and she shoved me as hard as she could." She cradled her muddy palm, sniffling. "Don't be mad at her. It’s my fault. I shouldn't have interfered." Every set of eyes turned toward me, blazing with pure hatred. I lay flat in the straw, incapable of lifting my chin. "Baby didn't push her," I murmured, half-blind from the rain in my eyelashes. "Baby can barely drag air into her lungs. How could baby push someone so big and healthy? But honestly... if baby had any strength left, baby would've held her face in the mud until she choked. That would've actually made sense." "Shut your mouth!" Connor crossed the patio in two furious strides, grabbed me by the collar of my sweater, and hauled me out of the doghouse like a sack of garbage. Cold rainwater surged down my shirt collar. He dragged me across the gravel toward the driveway, his teeth bared in revulsion. "You aren't just sick, Willa. You are rotten to the core!" He threw me onto the wet concrete steps outside the main security gate. "Get out! The Bradford family doesn't harbor rabid animals!" The heavy wrought-iron gate slammed shut behind me. The icy rain drenched me in seconds. The chill triggered instant, violent tetany throughout my lower body; my calves locked into agonizing knots, grinding bone against nerve. I didn't beg. I didn't knock. I curled into a tight ball, wrapping my trembling arms around my knees. Honestly, leaving was a relief. Dying out on the curb felt cleaner than dying under their roof. I began to pull myself forward on my elbows, wanting to reach the sidewalk. The gate clicked open again. The housekeeper hurried out, wheeling the adult-sized gait trainer I had ordered online with my meager savings—a frame with padded armrests and small rubber wheels. Connor stalked out behind her, ripped the walker from the maid's hands, and slammed it against the iron railing with sickening force. The metal warped; the plastic casters shattered across the asphalt. "What game is this?" Connor snarled, standing over me. "Playing the cripple? Who are you performing for?" He kicked the broken frame into the gutter. "Tomorrow is Grandmother’s eightieth birthday gala. The entire city’s elite will be there. You are going to walk through those banquet doors on your own two feet, like a normal human being! If you pull your disgusting little baby act tomorrow, I swear to God I’ll make you regret it." I tilted my head back, rain plastering my hair to my skull, and managed a tiny, pale smile. "But Connor... if baby forces herself to walk, baby's insides bleed. If baby starts throwing up blood all over Grandmother's birthday cake, that’s going to look so much worse for the family." It was the simple, biological truth. When I fell from the cliff, the rogue backwoods doctor pumped me full of synthetic hormones to stop the swelling, destroying my microvascular walls. Any bearing of weight ripped the vessels apart. I had to crawl, limp, and recline just to keep from drowning in my own blood. "Still spewing garbage!" Connor snapped, disgusted. He waved at the driveway. "Put her in the back!" Two security guards stepped forward, hoisting me up by my armpits. My shoulders popped with a dull click as my full weight hung suspended. The pain was so sharp my breath caught in my throat; not a single tear fell. They tossed me onto the leather bench seat of the family SUV like an abandoned coat. Half an hour later, the car pulled up beneath the glittering marquee of the downtown grand hotel. The red carpet was swarming with society photographers and elegant guests. The guards opened the door and let go. My legs, paralyzed by muscle spasms and internal hemorrhaging, buckled instantly. I collapsed onto the polished granite outside the revolving doors. My limbs splayed at unnatural, twisted angles. The chatter around the entrance abruptly died. Dozens of socialites turned, whispering behind their clutch bags. My father stepped out of the lead town car. The moment he saw me on the floor, his face flushed purple. "Shameless disgrace," he growled under his breath. He took two long strides, stepped directly up to me, and drove the toe of his leather shoe hard into my shin. "You picked tonight to humiliate this family? Get up!" I lay pressed against the cold stone, unable even to part my lips properly, so I just let the corner of my mouth curl. "Daddy, baby's legs are broken," I whispered, blood tasting metallic on my tongue. "Why don't you buy baby an urn with little wheels? Scooting inside would look pretty chic." "You—!" Father choked on his own breath, his hand shaking. "Charles, leave her!" Mother hissed, grabbing his arm, her eyes darting nervously toward a cluster of society columnists. "The guests are arriving. Don't let her drag us down. Let her lie in the dirt. Let’s see how long she keeps up the act!" They turned their backs, escorted Sabrina between them, and swept through the revolving doors. No one looked back. No one saw the trickle of dark blood leaking from the corner of my mouth. I lay on the marble floor amidst the shuffling feet of strangers for nearly twenty minutes until I gathered enough strength to drag myself along the wall, inch by agonizing inch, into the banquet hall. At the head table, Sabrina was bowing her head gracefully as Grandmother placed an heirloom diamond pendant around her neck. The room erupted in polite applause. I curled up on the carpet in the darkest corner of the room, behind a low highchair by the catering station. Clenching my teeth against the fire tearing through my abdomen, I pulled a small silicone baby cup from my pocket. I bit down on the straw, quietly sipping the strawberry liquid nutrient meal inside. It was the only thing my torn stomach lining could tolerate. Soft footsteps tapped against the hardwood. Sabrina walked over, a glass of pinot noir in her hand, staring down at me with cold, triumphant eyes. A waiter approached behind her, carrying a massive silver tureen of boiling broth toward the VIP tables. Just as the waiter drew level, Sabrina casually, imperceptibly slid the heel of her satin pump outward. The waiter tripped. He let out a startled yelp, lost his balance, and the entire tureen of boiling soup tipped over—pouring straight down onto my bare calves and feet. I didn't move. I didn't have the reflexes left to dodge, and honestly, I didn't care. The scalding broth soaked my skin, burning through my thin leggings. A woman nearby screamed. I looked down at the furious red blisters erupting across my flesh, bit down on the silicone straw, and looked up at Sabrina. "Wow," I said softly, giving her a sweet, crooked smile. "Baby's legs are medium-rare now. That's great... Connor will be so proud. Baby just saved the family cremation costs." The corner went dead silent. Guests turned, staring at me as if I were an escaped circus animal. "What a curse! Who let this monstrous creature back into our home?!" Grandmother slammed her gold-handled cane against the table, trembling with indignation. "On my eightieth birthday! She pulls these deranged stunts just to ruin my luck! Get her out of my sight!" Mother rushed over, not even glancing at the blistered, peeling skin on my legs. She slapped the sippy cup straight out of my hands. The plastic cracked, splashing pink nutrient fluid across the carpet. "Willa Bradford! Every breath you take in public is an embarrassment!" Mother shrieked. "Sabrina came over here out of the goodness of her heart to check on you, and you terrorize her?! Is your entire existence meant to disgust people?!" Sabrina immediately buried her face in her hands, her shoulders trembling with practiced sorrow. "Mom, don't blame Willa... it was my fault. I didn't see the waiter. She's just talking crazy because she's hurting..." I let out a slow, wet breath, raised a trembling finger, and pointed toward the table directly behind the catering station. A young man was sitting there with a tripod and a smartphone, frozen mid-broadcast. "Baby didn't terrorize anyone," I said, my voice cutting through the hush. "Why don't you go ask that influencer to play back his livestream? Let's check the video. Let's see whose foot tripped the waiter, and who terrorized whom." The room froze. The influencer swallowed hard, staring down at the chat scrolling frantically across his screen. Comments were flying: "I clipped it! The girl in the white silk dress stuck her foot out on purpose!" "That was malicious! She dumped boiling soup right on the other girl!" "Her skin is literally bubbling and the sister is playing the victim?!" Sweating under the sudden attention, the influencer turned his screen toward the room. The replay was crystal clear: Sabrina’s foot darting out, hooking the waiter's ankle, and snapping back. Sabrina’s face went paper-white. Her knees buckled, and she dropped to the floor, grabbing Mother’s skirt. "Mom! I didn't mean to! I swear I didn't!" Tears flooded her eyes. "My foot went numb... I just stretched my leg! I didn't know he was carrying soup! I would never hurt Willa!" Mother stood frozen, caught in the humiliation of the undeniable proof. But within seconds, her maternal instinct to protect her favorite child hardened her features. Connor shoved through the crowd, scooped Sabrina off the floor and held her against his side, glaring at me with raw venom. "You calculated this, didn't you, Willa?" Connor hissed. "You knew there was a camera there, so you deliberately set Sabrina up!" "Connor—" someone murmured in the crowd, but he talked right over them. "Even if Sabrina brushed against the waiter, it was an accident! If you weren't constantly crawling around on the floor like a freak, would Sabrina be so nervous she lost her footing?! If you sat in a chair like a normal person, would the soup have hit your legs?! You would've avoided it!" The sheer, twisted absurdity of his logic made me laugh. The vibration tore something inside my chest; a thin thread of dark blood bubbled past my lips. "Connor is so smart," I whispered, clapping my hands softly together. "World-class logic. Since baby is so evil, and baby's breathing is a public safety hazard... why don't you dig a ditch outside and bury baby alive right now to bless Sabrina's bright future?" I smiled at him. "Baby will crawl right in. Baby will even pull the dirt over her own face." Father felt the judging eyes of the entire room burning into his back. His face was gray. "Take her home!" he barked at the security guards. "Lock her in her room! She doesn't take one step out until I say so!" I was dragged back to the estate. When they threw me into my bedroom, the room was unrecognizable. The soft anti-collision padding I had painstakingly glued to the walls had been ripped down, leaving jagged patches of drywall. The plush rugs were gone. The thick mattress had been dragged away, leaving only the bare, unvarnished wooden bed frame. "Father's orders," the housekeeper said quietly, avoiding my gaze. "Since you like pretending you have no spine, you sleep on the planks." I stared at the bare wooden slats. Usually, lying on an unyielding surface for more than thirty minutes triggered violent, systemic tetany in my atrophied muscle fibers. It didn't matter anymore. I didn't have the strength to stand anyway. Using my elbows and knees, I hauled myself onto the wooden frame and laid straight as a board. "Oh, wow," I murmured, staring up at the bare ceiling fixture. "Baby thinks this plank makes a great casket. Flat. Hard. When baby dies, you won't even have to transfer the body. Just nail the lid down." The heavy oak door slammed shut. The deadbolt clicked into place from the outside. That night, without any cushioning to support my degenerating spine, the spasms hit like a freight train. Every major muscle group locked simultaneously. My internal organs felt as though they were being twisted through a wringer. I curled on the bare planks, biting into the flesh of my own wrist to swallow the screams. Warm, dark blood trickled from my lips and nose, soaking into the dry wood beneath my cheek. At dawn, the lock turned. Connor stood in the doorway, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit. He glanced down at the dark, dried blood staining the planks by my face, his lip curling into a sneer. "Biting your own lip to play the tragic invalid?" he said, cold disgust in his tone. "You truly make me sick." The pain had hollowed out my vocal cords; I couldn't even manage a whisper. Sabrina peeked out from behind his shoulder. She was holding a torn slip of cardstock, her eyes rimmed with red. "Connor, don't yell at her," Sabrina murmured softly. "Willa was just angry because she was locked up. That’s why she snuck into my room last night and shredded my competition ticket." It was the ticket to the Regional Youth Solo Dance Finals—the event the entire Bradford family had been talking about for months. Sabrina dabbed at her eyes. "I worked on this routine for six months... but if ruining my chances helps Willa feel better, I don't mind..." I stared at the torn paper. Last night, I hadn't been able to roll onto my side, let alone walk down the hall to her room. Connor believed every word. So did Mother, who stormed in behind them holding a heavy canvas sack. It was an adult behavioral restraint sleep sack—the kind used in high-security psychiatric facilities. "Ungrateful parasite!" Mother hissed. "Your sister is competing for the state championship today, and you resort to petty, vindictive sabotage?!" Mother and the housekeeper pinned me down. As they forced my limp limbs into the stiff, heavy canvas, the fabric dragged across my fresh soup burns and spasming thighs. Cold sweat poured from my forehead, but I didn't make a sound. I knew them too well. The more I cried, the more convinced they would be that it was an act. The heavy zipper traveled all the way up my back, locking at the nape of my neck. My arms were pinned securely across my chest. My legs were bound straight together; I couldn't bend my knees an inch. "You stay right here on these boards today," Mother snapped. "Think about what a hateful creature you've become." Connor stepped forward, holding a small white plastic monitor. With heavy-duty mounting tape, he slapped it firmly onto the wooden headboard directly above my skull. "See this?" Connor said. "It’s a nursery baby monitor." He had bought it weeks ago to track Sabrina’s dog after she had a litter of puppies. Now, he was tossing it to me like an insult. "Don't say we neglected you. If you pull any stunts in here—if you start wailing or thrashing just to be annoying—the moment this alert pings my phone, I will come back and break your legs myself." Trapped in the canvas cocoon, every inhalation felt like inhaling ground glass. I looked at the tiny white camera and managed a faint, bloody smile. "Thank you, Connor," I whispered. "A piece of advice, though... if you hear something on that tonight, don't come back." My voice grew fainter. "Cleaning up a corpse is messy work. Baby wouldn't want to get stains on your nice new suit." Connor’s expression tightened for a fraction of a second, an uncomfortable shadow passing behind his eyes. "Unrepentant to the end," he muttered, turning on his heel. The heavy bedroom door shut and locked once more. A moment later, the lock clicked again. Sabrina slipped back inside under the pretense of grabbing a lipstick from the vanity. She walked slowly to the edge of the wooden bed, looking down at me like an insect pinned to a board. On the nightstand sat my final three prescription capsules—the specialty anti-inflammatory painkillers Dr. Mitchell had quietly given me. Sabrina reached out, picked up the blister pack, and popped the three pills out one by one. She dropped them into the adjoining bathroom's toilet bowl and pressed the lever. The water swirled, swallowing the medication with a loud gurgle. "Willa," Sabrina smiled, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness, "if you're going to play the dying baby, you have to commit. What kind of fraud takes medicine?" She turned and left. Those three pills were the only things keeping my vascular system from collapsing entirely before sundown. By five in the afternoon, the room had plunged into absolute darkness. Without the drugs suppressing the micro-ruptures, my internal organs gave way. A violent, ripping agony tore from my stomach up toward my pericardium. It felt as though a pair of hands were reaching inside my ribcage, twisting my intestines into shreds. The canvas restraint sack had become an iron coffin. I couldn't pull my knees to my chest to relieve the pressure; I couldn't shift an inch. I could only lie flat against the bare planks, gasping as blood welled up my esophagus. I choked, dark crimson flooding over my chin, soaking the thick canvas around my throat. It hurt. God, it hurt so much. Using the absolute last reserve of adrenaline in my dying body, I strained my neck upward. I reached with my chin, aiming for the white plastic monitor mounted to the headboard. I slammed my forehead against the plastic casing. Once. Twice. The green indicator light flashed wildly. The red distress beacon flared. ... In the backstage dressing room of the downtown arts pavilion, Sabrina finished blotting her lips. She glanced at her parents and let out an exaggerated, delicate sigh. "Mom, Dad... the baby monitor app keeps glitching on Connor's phone. The maid said Willa's probably banging around in her room again, trying to get attention. I'm just so worried she'll do something crazy to ruin the performance..." Mother frowned, waving a dismissive hand. "Ignore her. She’s an emotional terrorist." In the third row of the auditorium, Connor reached into his tuxedo pocket to silence his phone before the curtain went up. The screen lit up with a pulsing red banner: [WARNING: Nursery Monitor has detected severe distress vocalizations.] [WARNING: Critical decibel/vibration threshold exceeded.] Connor scowled. He remembered my parting words that morning: "Cleaning up a corpse is messy work." "The boy who cried wolf," he muttered, his teeth grinding in irritation. "Disgusting." With a flick of his thumb, he held down the application icon and pressed "Delete". The screen wiped clean. The phone went dark. Silence returned to his world. ... In the pitch-black bedroom, I watched the plastic monitor above my head. The red light blinked twice, flickered, and then—severed from the server—died completely. My lungs were drowning in blood. I couldn't draw in a single sliver of oxygen. I didn't cry. With the very last breath rattling in my throat, I let the corners of my bloody mouth lift into a soft, crooked curve. "Baby's... going to sleep now," I whispered into the dark. My vision blurred, dissolving into gray mist. Slowly, the frantic, agonizing flutter in my chest stilled. And then, nothing.