Aria was twenty-five when her son was born, and she had been happy to discover that she loved motherhood. She spent every day with her baby boy, playing games and talking about the world around them. It was a small joy in an otherwise dark time for Aria. Her husband died of cancer just before the baby arrived, leaving her all alone.
All of that changed one night while taking care of little Bobby Jr., who always slept soundly at 9pm on weekdays despite being only four months old. His eyes were still open when he woke up screaming from his nap. And this time they were crying blood instead of tears, red running down his cheeks onto his bib which reflected more light than its original white colour had done before. He was screaming in an inhuman voice, so loud I could barely hear myself think. It felt like my ears were being squeezed by a vice grip while he cried louder and louder until all that was left, was darkness.