Alice held the pillow tightly in her hand as she walked toward the crib. She gazed down at the little devil and gritted her teeth nervously as her inner demons battled her conscience.

The child was not hers. Sure it had been born from her womb, she knew that. But as soon as the doctor handed it to her, she knew that the miniature devil-spawn was not her own.

It had been a parasite, feeding on her own blood and nutrition for nine grueling and sleepless months – humiliating months.

Richard had tried to console her. Post Partem Depression, he’d said. Let me pick up some of the slack, he’d said. Counseling, he’d said.

Even now, the little shit’s eyes were satan’s as it looked up at her, and she knew it was time. Enough was enough.

She lowered the pillow, finally looking forward to a good night’s sleep.

The child’s hand motioned at her. She ignored. She felt a pain in her chest. The pillow lowered further to freedom.

Pain.

Alice was survived by her husband Richard and newborn son.