Paperback Writer

Adorable baby – 2003 Everyone remembers their first memory of life, some remember little if not anything of their lives before five, with only what their parents tell them as their thoughts. Some remember far back as in the womb, but then jump gaps here and there till their next fondest memory. Others, through hypnotism, can go into past lives, and repressed memories. Me? My first memory is as clear as day, as well of the rest of my memories. I remember falling down the stairs. Don’t think my mother was a bad person, she wasn’t, she didn’t drop me or push me, she just forgot to pull the rail across on the stairs and as a crawling one year old, I decided to wander there and that’s how it happened. BANG, CLATTER, CRASH. The strangest thing was, I had no bumps or bruises. My mum rushed me to hospital, and everything checked out, so that was it. I was a very cute baby. I know not because I’m good looking now, but because I remember the “aww, isn’t he a cute baby” and “isn’t he adorable?” I got from passers by. The first few times, it was rather an ego boost, when you’re one that is. You’d get pushed around, seeing new sights and “aww… he’s so adorable” and it would be quite flattering. After the third time in the day and the baby talk of “who’s a wittle fellow them?”, and the constant “adorable” conversations, it got quite annoying. Didn’t these people have anything better to do with their lives then look at me, say adoring things again and again and again? No! They didn’t. I could have just killed them. I would just stare at them, wishing they would just die, right there, right then. The shocking thing was, they did. I remember clearly the first time it happened. My dad pushed me into a store, full of DVDs, Videos, Games, and as he looked, stopping the pushchair, the assistant behind the counter looked, smiling, knowing full well that he so wanted to say “isn’t he adorable?” This was it. I starred, looking deep in his eyes, wishing, hoping, praying he would fall dead, and he did. It was instant. His body fell sideward behind the counter and he died. They blamed it on the heating, the air conditioning not working, but I knew the truth, I had done it, and it served him right! Uncle Frank was next. He had the largest facial hair ever, in the history of facial hair. It would be fun to pull it, every time he reached down to say something to me like “how’s my lovely nephew doing?” But recently, he had shaved it off, so there nothing to tug, nothing from stopping him saying those words to me. Mum had already taken me around town, shopping for chocolates and baby diapers, and I’d already had enough of the “adorable” phrases for that day. Uncle Frank didn’t know, didn’t care. He didn’t think. He moved down to my eye line, smiled at me and said “who can’t pull my wittle beard anymore?” I starred into his eyes and hoped he would keel over, hit the bucket, meet the grim reaper dead on, and his eyes seemed to pop out, open fully, look at me like he knew I was responsible. He toppled backwards onto the carpeted floor. Everyone rushed in, shouting his name, checking his pulse, doing CPR, nothing worked. He had a heart attack at the age of fifty-two, well that’s what they say. After a few of my family members, my babysitters and a few passers by died from looking into my pram buggy or cot, my parent’s caught on. My father started smoking, almost twelve packets a day. My mother would never look at me directly. I would never go out, not even for a little stroll, in fear that someone would die. I wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t like I did it to everyone that I saw, only those that made me mad, that annoyed me that day. My parent’s didn’t trust me. Why would I kill my own parents? If they loved me, I would never kill them or hurt them intentionally. But do loving parents ignore their child’s cry at night? No! Do they keep their child locked in a bedroom? No! Do loving parents never talk or even look at their child? NO! My parent’s didn’t love me. Maybe they never did. They wouldn’t be expecting what I had planned. It was getting close to bedtime, I could tell. The footsteps where now upstairs instead of downstairs and the dark room was even darker now. I could hear them on the landing, talking. This was my chance. “Mummy”, I bellowed at the top of my voice, “Mummy.” The voices outside stopped, as if listening for it. “Mummy”, I screamed again. The door swung open and in rushed mummy, a huge smile on her face, as she picked me up, like she used to do, and smiled. I could see my father’s figure in the doorway, the cigarette lit up, inhaling the smoke from it. “Daddy”, I wailed, hoping he would join her, but he didn’t, he just stood there, smoking. Mum looked at him, trying to reassure him, “come on. If he would have done something, he would have done it by now.” It took him a few seconds, not long, but he moved over, cigarette in his hand, between his fingers, and looked at my smiling face. Wasn’t Mummy wrong? I starred into both of their eager eyes, smiling at me, trying to love me once again, but they should have loved me always, like loving parents always would. It was a soft landing, as I landed on my mother’s body, her hands still supporting me, as both toppled over. The cigarette rolled along the floor, soon turning the carpet into a flame and from a flame into a fire. It had been a while since I had walked, well crawled, but I did it. There was no rail across the stairs, because I didn’t need it up since I never came out of the cot, only to be changed. The smoke was rising and filling the hallway and still I crawled until CRASH, CLATTER, BANG! They call me the miracle child at the orphanage. It’s been thirteen years and the cutting of the newspaper article is still up. “Child survives as fire engulfs parents and house.” I don’t remember much about the rescue, I do remember I was loved by many different people and although I don’t use my gifts as often, prosperous parent’s are still weary when their family pet dies of unknown causes after the first hour of me going to their house. Who needs pets, when they can have me, the adorable baby?