The Mix-Up — Abbie Doll
The child was born whispering. I am recycled. I am recycled. No one knew what it meant or why a child fresh from the womb could speak. It arrived with the preformed face of a ghoulish man—a dark receding hairline, deflated cheeks, and two catatonic eyes the color of charcoal. When it smiled, its lips converged forcibly like sewn skin, and the expression fell flat without extending to its eyes. Though technically toothless, its grins left a lingering impression of fangs. The parents weren’t so sure they wanted this anymore. Neither anticipated producing such an off-putting bundle of joylessness. It was as if they’d adopted a cranky elder with a full memory bank, not birthed a dear baby. They felt baffled by this monstrous mistake they’d made.
In its crib, the child often stood and stared, passing judgment on everyone who had the misfortune of crossing its field of vision. It refused everything with the exception of boiled eggs, sucking on them the way most kids lick lollipops, leaving a crumbly trail of grey yolk. It chuckled at anything violent with its abrasive postpubescent vocal cords. The parents were mortified by their baby. At night, it curled itself into a nautilus shell as if trying to disappear back to the deep abyss from whence it came. The parents couldn’t help but hope it would. It continued to whisper its first words—I am recycled, recycled, recycled—hiccupping the phrase over and over like a record skipping. The infant seemed vexed by its new body’s limitations. It often clapped its hands just to rattle the parents, cackling at their gasps of sudden surprise.
Things worsened with age. No one knew what to do with the little devil who treated its crib like a cell, its existence a life sentence. It began to hoard the kitchen cutlery, making silent threats that stupefied. It started stealing sips of Daddy’s bourbon, always asking for cigarettes, and demanding to know how its son in Boston was doing. Eventually, the parents caved and smothered it, burying both their son and shame in the yard while praying for his pacified spirit.
AUTHOR BIO:
Abbie Doll is an eclectic mess of a person who loves exploring the beautiful intricacies of the written word. She resides in Columbus, OH and received her MFA from Lindenwood University; her work has been featured or is forthcoming in Door Is a Jar Magazine, OPEN: Journal of Arts & Letters (O:JA&L), Black Fox Literary Magazine, among others. Follow her @AbbieDollWrites.
