Children's Hospice: Chapter 1

Children's Hospice is a new novella I'm working on to be released soon.  This is the first chapter.  Please keep in mind that the following contains some graphic and upsetting contents.  If you are easily offended, give it a miss.

Little baby Christmas Rudolph picture postcard tinsel snow and cakes dusty dusty cakes warm fire pretty bow and tinsel tinsel tinsel fire cake and fucking wine elfy Santa cheerful little Christmas baby smiles and songs and the turkey isn't done but Quality Street and Roses and fucking wine and Santa time and celebrations (and Celebrations) here bring the little baby open your eyes little baby open your presents little baby little baby see his little smile joy joy joy fucking eh!  It's little baby Christmas Victor baby little Victor see little baby Victor one year old today!  Christmas puppy yay!

Hoist him to the heavens parade him round the room mummy pass him to daddy take him by the armpits and wave him hither, and thither, and this way, and that way, and point him at the door and thrust him at the television and spiral and swirl and lift him high and show him the tree and feed him the breadstick and dance and skip and hold the little baby tightly and waltz and stride and own the stage with little baby Victor laughing in your hands, laughing at the new world spiraling in midair and now wind down and bend your knees and slink to the floor and place the lovely baby boy delicately on the soft warm carpet for here is his rustling Christmas gift and it must be received.

And little baby Victor fiddles with the pretty bow and the shiny paper on the warm carpet floor under the lovely lovely tree and tears at the surprise and giggles and smiles and fiddles and smiles and wriggles and miles and miles of torn shiny paper flutter and billow out from little baby Victor's little baby palms and strew all over the merry merry Christmas carpet and out from the surprising wriggling shiny mass of shreds and bows wags and wallops and flops and lollops out little Christmas puppy yay!

Little baby Victor claps and gurgles and the Christmas puppy yay dances and flips and spins and wags and yips and sniffs and runs around the warm merry merry Christmas carpet and oh look at the lovely tree aint it lovely?  The lights and the angels and the tinsel and the shiny chocolate pennies and the snowmen and the stars and the beads and the plastic reindeer and the wooden elves and the plush Santa and I don't know about the pink hippo I suppose that was nan's contribution and the tinsel and the candles and the gold and the green and the pines and the red and all of the warm warm merry merry Christmas tree and beneath the tree fluttering and yipping and pawing the adorable the warm the new arrival the Christmas puppy yay!

And Jesus.

Get the camera dad!  Get the camera dad!  See little baby Victor now he's small and good and true and his little baby brain isn't pierced by hate and fear and regret get the camera and film little baby Victor and the Christmas puppy yay!  See him play!  Glorious day!  No dismay!  Christmas puppy yay!

Daddy gets the camera daddy bends his knees daddy points the big thing at little baby Victor and little baby Victor waves and gurgles and bounces on his bottom on the warm merry merry Christmas carpet and mummy claps and smiles and sips her fucking wine and watches little baby Victor through the filter of the lens the glaring neon shiny flat screen even littler little baby Victor is a star character in the centre of the frame and mummy loves to laugh and smile and the music plays on (WHAM MARIAH CAREY BONEY M even JONAH LEWIE) and the living room is warm and there are dusty cakes and Quality Streets and breadsticks and all manner of dip and chocolates to the rafters and cold beer for daddy and fucking wine for mummy and little baby Victor: The Movie is still in production as the Christmas puppy yay flits and darts in and out of televised immortality and mummy watches the little camera screen pretend to be her little baby Victor on this glorious Christmas day - Christmas puppy yay!

Bedtime after the film for little baby Victor and the pooped out tuckered out yawning cream crackered Christmas puppy lay down in its fluffy little pit to experience Boxing Day for the first time in its fleetingly unnecessary existence while little baby Victor sleeps and dreams what babies dream if babies dream perhaps as perceived babies can't dream if they are creatures of instinct what could babies dream about?  If a baby was braindead how would you know?  Without medical assistance at least ponders mummy but never mind that today of all days: Christmas puppy yay!

And Jesus.

It was not always this way.  This idyllic Christmas day preceded annually by the former festive day.  That was the day upon which little baby Victor – then known only as little baby – came into being.  He gestated for the best part of the year inside mummy’s tummy a child in appearance but really just larva stewing in human broth nourished by the fleshy tube and cocooned out of all spatial awareness by the flesh-egg that is growing mummy - the conduit for all of little baby’s future fallibility where daddy’s nine-month-passed euphoric release signaled the passing of his accountability.

It is eight months and twenty-seven days since the blissful twilit creation of little baby and the snow doesn’t fall but the darkness rolls in more frequently now and the shops hang up their lights and hoist up their plastic trees and put red hats on their melancholic workers and pump SHAKIN’ STEVENS through their aisles and the waddling mums and head scratching dads flock panicked to those aisles where SHAKIN’ STEVENS’ glittering salutations of merriment do little to soften their jittery snatches and grabs of all the best toys for all their little baby boys and girls but mummy floats glacially through the cold and the decorated dark clutching the weight of the future in her veined and strained hands for this little baby is on His way (yes they knew the sex) and it could be today it could have been yesterday but if life goes to plan it will be tomorrow – and Christmas for mummy will be back ache and blood loss and bent knees and latex-clad stranger’s hands and wincing and screaming and sweating and straining and pushing and shitting and crying and sleeping and waking and loving and mummy knows this as she puffs and pants in the icy high street wondering what she is doing out tonight for the shops are all full and she dare not go inside lest she suffer the elbows and pushchairs of her would be salivating company who would bound intently toward the spot upon which she would stand, blind to her occupation of it and in their intent would fling mummy like an unwelcome spider into the clattering shelves of the socks and pants aisle.  No this is not a night mummy wishes for so she shuffles home clutching little baby wrapped in its bulbous cocoon awaiting His grand entrance into the cold world.  And she is home and there is smiling daddy who places his paper on the coffee table and rises to take mummy in his arms and help her sit down for although the solitary walk in the long cold street was accomplished without aid it would be unseemly to allow his beloved and bearer of his boy to cross the room to the settee unassisted.  And so he helps and mummy huffs and mummy sits and mummy’s heart pumps and pumps and the active blood slurps through her swirling veins and the goodness and the iron and the nutrition canons into the tubes that feed the throbbing little kicking baby and as He is fed His eyelids rise and His eyes have flames inside them and He sees the flesh and the fluid and the amniotic debris that floats around Him and He knows where He is and He knows where He should be.  It is time to live little baby!  See the light my child!  See the Earth!  And the midnight bell chimes and it is Christmas day and mummy gasps and out comes her hand and into daddy’s forearm sink her sudden claws and she gasps and leans and there is a flourish in her lap and out it leaks and it heralds His arrival and mummy knows and daddy knows that little baby will be a Christmas baby as was foretold.

Darkness streaks by and green blue purple red yellow orange pink white gold streams of light rush past beyond the glare of the steamy window.  Mummy is on cold leather as the wriggling creature animates her insides and scuttles closer to her thighs and daddy drives and it’s going to be alright and on the hill ahead under the black sky the white temple – the star in the sky – the glowing green cross marking out its refuge daddy spins the wheel and swerves and the tires screech and burn and mummy is lifted and the cold nips her skin and the baby slithers within and the door is slammed and she is taken by strangers and lain on a mattress in a small room and it’s going to be alright little baby is coming push push push breathe take daddy’s hand squeeze and strain and grind your teeth and push and bleed and the little baby’s fingers grip the walls and the little baby pulls and shuffles and crawls and slithers to the light and passes through mummy who roars from the strain and the little baby blinks in the overwhelming glare and sees all the wide-eyed smiles and the white walls and the blood-speckled sheets and the parted knees and he is taken by mighty hands and hoisted into the room and his coiling belly-chain is hacked apart by a glinting blade and so seeps the newborn mucus onto the mattress and this is not the world little baby had in mind and so all he can do is screw up his face and cry.  Mummy, have yourself a merry little Christmas baby.  And mummy cries and daddy cries and even the relatively jaded nursing staff shed a tear and on that Christmas morning the walls of the welcoming hospital cry and they are crying to this day.

And newborn little baby is taken home and named Victor and the bubble of a little life takes his bewildered soul somehow to being the one year old little baby Victor who received the little yipping puppy on that blissful Christmas day.  And one year old little baby Victor goes not without some trial and error and the occasional runny nose, to being two year old little baby Victor and all the long year mummy is nearby to hold and love and warm and kiss and teach and protect and feed and change and cuddle little baby Victor, mummy’s boy child born on Christmas day.  On days he plays on nights sleeps tight on days on the soft warm carpet and with the soft warm Christmas puppy and on nights in mummy’s arms and sometimes the cheeky little boy crawls up onto mummy’s sleeping face and mummy wakes and starts and laughs and little baby Victor laughs and not yet amply rested daddy stirs and turns and groans and shrugs indignant at the wayward child, the tearaway and on days mummy stands by the piano and fiddles with the keys making tunes for little baby Victor to laugh and clap to and little baby Victor sits on the piano stool which by rights should be mummy’s seat but she cares not when that super little baby’s big eyes beam up to hers and the music floats on through the soft spot on his baby head (those kids are each born with such a hole there) and she smiles and sometimes cries her boy her joy a greater melody than ever she created on that piano (yes daddy helped but damn it all if he knows it) and she waits again for the nights and cheeky chappy Victor’s nocturnal climb onto mummy’s face to wake her up and now it is Christmas all over again where did the long year go?  And them dogs don't them dogs grow up fast?  Oh what did we do daddy?  That little Christmas puppy will be dead at the prime of Victor's childhood.  Will be cold in its pit when little baby Victor is barely through his first decade.  What did we do?  Why did we get that wretched mutt at such a time in our golden precious prize special gorgeous little baby Victor's little life?

Shut it woman don't be absurd that dog is a year old still laying turds in the kitchen let's leave the worry for a few years shall we?  See how Christmas puppy skips and jumps and wags and yips and rolls over and over upon the ground all of the day and watches the birds in the garden and the dogs in the field and longs to gallop with them but don't we know he's a terror and can't be trusted beyond the ensnaring realm of the leash so shut it woman that wretched mutt will burden us yet Victor will deal when Victor must deal so shut it woman don't be absurd you've had too much of that fucking wine this Christmas day.  Perhaps the turkey needs a look?  Perhaps you've carrots yet to cook?  Perhaps read some more of your book but shut it woman I need to watch this film the telly aint half as good in the long year as it is on this Christmas day and that dog will sniff our wrinkled toes in the end and that dog might even watch one of us go under the ground.  So go and chop that bird for I am hungry and you are drunk and I have no desire to be solitary in an audience for needless fretting.

Mummy swirls out of the room and leaves behind angry daddy and his glaring screen to which all his focus returns and she is in the kitchen now and there is the fat pink bird flesh and bone and veins and vessels and dripping blood and leaking oils and seeping fats onto the metal tray with shriveled leathery hog slices strewn across its plucked torso it lies legs parted on its back severed wing stubs splayed out at its sides exposed for the forced entry of onion and sage and more hacked hunks of hog and drunk mummy has no desire to feed this corpse to fat daddy anymore for fat daddy has said cold words and nothing more should pass those hateful lips tonight so mummy clutches the cleaver and hacks away.  She strikes at the bone and it crunches in two she strikes at the flesh and it splits and globules of congealed blood are spat out by the force of the cleaver as the cold pink skin is severed and some strike mummy’s cheeks and others merely coil up mummy’s knuckles and the body of the bird is flayed and diced and decimated and through all the heavy strikes of the cleaver mummy scowls back through the room and there is daddy on the chair, illuminated by the screen his greasy hair giving wide berth to the pale flaky bald spot on his head, a white whirlpool of resentment and cold yawning malevolently back at mummy who chops and hacks and slices and dices and whacks at the mangled bird corpse, now just gnarled chunks of bacteria-infested flesh and smeared red blood on the metal tray there will be no bird to eat on Christmas day Victor can have his baby mush daddy can have nothing but that glaring screen, ample nourishment for fat repressed hate.  And she stares at him and somehow she recalls a summer time when daddy took her hand and showed her things and there were shouts of promise and garlands of hope and blossoming forever and laughter and embraces and kissing and no forethought of the cold mangled bird and the white flaky bald spot and when daddy gives his bi-annual thought of mummy he dimly recalls his bygone mantra she will challenge me because she is a genius and she is hilarious and she reads clever books and if I were a thousand times cleverer and a thousand times more beautiful then maybe I could BE her but as it stands I have to make do with simply being WITH her which is hardly a poor compromise but there is no such thought tonight.  No, nor is there even the thought of the absence of the thought.  There is simply no thought.

What is this you stupid slut!

It is the bird daddy.

This can’t be!  This won’t feed me!

It is all you deserve daddy.

It’s Christmas day!  This is my Christmas feast!  What have you done to it?

It is still meat.  You can still eat.

You’ve hacked it to bits!

I’ve hacked it to bits.

You’re drunk!

I am drunk.

Mummy lets the cleaver go and down it falls on the kitchen floor.  Daddy raises both his hands and wipes his sad fat face and roars his Christmas day, his day of peace, that stupid slut has chopped it to bits like the cold quivering bird now merely mangled hunks on the metal tray.  This is no way to treat a man on Christmas day go to bed Victor mummy and daddy must talk Merry Christmas little baby Victor we love you don’t we mummy?  Don’t we cherish his little heart and all his innocent love and all the promise for your long life little baby Victor you are our golden treasure and Christmas day will always be a special day a special day for you the best day your favourite day but right now please to bed it’s beddy-byes time our little love mummy and daddy love you so.  There are stars that shine on you when the night rules and there is the rising sun that will hold and love you when the day has come.  Good night little baby sleep so well we’ll tuck you in soon and whisper wishes for flights of angels and the man in the moon to rockabye your tired soul into the serenity of sleep.  Now he is in bed woman I can deal with you.  One more act like the debacle with the bird and hell itself will freeze over before you’re able to bear another son.

Some more fucking wine for crying mummy for daddy at his telly can’t be suppressed out of her mind any other way all there is to do is drink and play the little piano at the little stool upon which little baby Victor won’t sit tonight for he is the banished accessory to the crime of daddy’s absence oh if he were truly absent this would be a happy home but his vacancy is just of the heart and this is a hell house now (what a difference a year makes) father turned his back on little baby Victor his creation and mummy can’t ignore that and that is why she hacked the bird.  She plays and the Christmas puppy yips and with each chime and each yip daddy winces and flinches and tenses and grinds his teeth for this is not the soundtrack to his cherished seasonal television no this is an intrusion this is an affront this is a sensory revolution and he is the monseigneur the aristocracy the decadent emperor of this family house of cards which is destined to fall as all empires must.

Leave it you stupid slut!  Mummy plays on.

Put an end to that hideous tune!  Christmas puppy yips on.

I’ll chop that wretched thing to bits!  The melody lingers on.

Well then you deaf whore feel my fist!  And the music stops.

Daddy swipes and mummy bawls and mummy bites and daddy recoils and daddy strikes and mummy falls and Christmas puppy yaps and growls and the fucking wine bottle tumbles to the carpet and daddy takes hold of the zip on his fly for fatherhood has left little room for mummy and daddy time these days and now here is an angry angry hungry man who lunges and mummy screams.

And upstairs beneath the shade of the sweet night time and beneath the soft glow of plastic stars precious little baby Victor smiles through his baby dream and his little eyes are closed and the twinkle of innocence lullabies him safely through the peaceful slumber.  Today has gone to bed but tomorrow is still dreaming and it will arise with the glowing sun which will shine through the winter and take you carefully in its arms and usher you, little baby Victor, usher you on a golden adventure just like it has done every day of your little life.

But crash!

And bang!

And oh that sound!

Oh that’s mummy!

Oh that’s daddy!

It’s still Christmas day!

And they laugh yet and they play!

I want to see mummy laugh!

I want to see daddy play!

Baby Victor stirs and smiles and gurgles and climbs the climb.

I want to see mummy laugh!

I want to see daddy play!

And maybe, just maybe, a warm cuddle from my Christmas puppy, yay!

So little baby Victor lands on his little baby feet and waddles excitedly to the door and its crack of big light seeping through the bottom come into the light little baby Victor, come toward the light.

There is gnashing and grunting and gouging and thrusting and wagging and barking and flailing and crying and pushing and swiping and bleeding and sweating and crashing and screaming and roaring and kicking and smothering and ravaging and the plethora rolls on round eternal.  Mummy will retaliate and daddy will pacify and mummy’s defeated arms fall back to the warm warm merry Christmas carpet so daddy can continue the plunge and the dreaded plethora rolls on round eternal but mummy sees a way to be free.  There on the ground beside me!  That fucking wine bottle!  Drained of its fucking wine!  Daddy does not know it is there!  For he is too busy with me!

Mummy reaches for the fucking wine bottle and takes it in her hand and, though the hunched fat frame of thrusting daddy stifles the endeavour she swings the bottle over and there opens the big door and out ekes the little face of little baby Victor all excited and glowing like tomorrow’s sun and through the air the bottle goes and it twists and it turns and it flies and it has missed daddy but the confusion has halted his attack and he looks and he sees and he says Victor! And the bottle spins and tumbles and descends and rollicking billowing sinewy streaming black despair pours out into the air with a deafening crash and a sickening crunch the rocketing bottleneck sinks into the baby soft spot flesh brain-skull hole and back out it pings and down he goes with all his promise little baby Victor goes limp on the warm carpet and the fucking wine bottle rolls away from its deed and Christmas puppy barks and daddy pulls away and cowers and puts his weapon hurriedly away and mummy is dazed on the same ground as her deed and she bends her knees and cocks her head and waits for sense and there is little baby Victor by the door, on the floor, he is not moving, he is not laughing, his eyes are not alight, open your eyes little baby, open your eyes little baby, open your eyes little baby.  And daddy shrieks and mummy shrieks and Christmas puppy shrieks and on that Christmas night the house of the family Victor shrieks and it is shrieking to this day.

Oh that fucking wine!