One of the short stories in my new, darkly comedic book, Death Bound: Life Support Edition, is called Baby Momma Drama.
Baby Momma Drama is one of my weirder stories… Without going into spoiler detail, it’s about a drug addicted mother, who’s not at all happy about the baby she has. While it may not sound like something to be laughed at, it’s all in the delivery, and this particular mother spirals fast…
Tonya Matthews leaned against the door frame of her grimy bathroom, gazing out at her newborn baby as he lay hungry and crying in the dresser drawer that had been his makeshift crib.
She’d gotten used to the honking traffic and the passing monorail trains outside, but his crying was becoming unbearable. He’d been crying for hours, and though he was only a few weeks old, he’d cried loud enough to be heard through the thin walls and floors of her one-bedroom apartment. The neighbors beside and beneath her heard. They knocked the walls and the ceiling and shouted profanities. The stray dogs outside heard. They howled and howled. The roaches and mice heard. They skittered and scampered. Tonya, herself, heard.
She just didn’t care.
She hadn’t even named him. Why bother? Regardless of a name, rather it was Nick or Brad or Ben, he’d always be known as “that crack head’s crack baby”. No, the only name she’d bother giving him would be Boy or Lil’ Shit Who Ruined Her Already Shitty Life. LSWRHASL, for short.
God, he was such an inconvenience. What, she wondered, had she done to deserve such crap luck?
Irritation filled her. If only her sister— fucking heifer— would have lent her the money she’d asked for, then Tonya would have had enough cash to buy the good drugs that she needed to cope with her crappy childhood. But her sister—the stingy bitch— hadn’t lent her the money. Something about, “Being done with funding an addict,” but to hell with that. This was her fault.
All of it.
If her sister had of just lent her the money, then Tonya wouldn’t have had to settle for shit drugs from some sketchy guy at a Motel 6. And if those shit drugs hadn’t of been laced with something cheap, she wouldn’t have gotten so high that she’d somehow lose her favorite pants, the ones with the pre-faded thighs. And if she hadn’t of lost her pants, she wouldn’t have gotten arrested for indecent exposure. And if she hadn’t of been arrested and suffered through the agony of withdrawal and jumpy nerves and maybe a little pity-partying, then by the time the dumb, pig cops released her, she wouldn’t have needed a fix so bad that she’d let Arnie from the Tavern screw her out back in the alleyway without a condom for a measly twenty dollars just so she could buy more drugs…
She took a deep breath.
As it were, she had done those things. Because of her sister, of course. And she had gotten pregnant. And she had had a baby she didn’t want. A baby she neglected. A baby she hid away in a dresser drawer where it’d been crying endlessly for all of eternity.
Cry. Cry. Cry.
Cry. Cry. Cry.
Cry. Cry. Cr—
“Shut up,” she said, though barely loud enough to hear herself. It cried some more. She raised her voice. “Shut up.” Still, IT—because IT wasn’t a person, IT was a thing— cried. “Shut UP!”
Then a knock on the floor, followed by “What the fuck is going on up there?”, which she responded to by stomping and screaming back, “I. Don’t. Fucking. Know. It won’t shut up!”
And then the baby, startled by the noise, began crying again.