Unbreakable - Surviving the Truth · (Roswell Fanfiction) ·

THREE

The baby's crying filled the air. There was nothing like a baby's desperate cries. It cut straight through your core, making it impossible to not respond. The walls around me were white, lacking decoration, making the room painfully bright. The brightness was enhanced by the sunlight shining boldly through every one of the many windows. 

I didn't recognize this room. Its details were blurry, made even less distinct whenever my gaze moved from one spot to the next in my attempt to orient myself.

The crying continued, bouncing off the bare walls, digging into my most inner being. Lacking orientation and purpose, I decided to follow the cries. The unrelenting crying kept growing louder, telling me that no one was attending to the child. The baby was alone.

With a stumble, I set out to follow the crying, but the way it was echoing and bouncing around the room, the rooms – with all of their identical naked white walls – turned into a maze of confusion. 

"I'm coming, I'm coming," I kept repeating under my breath. Mostly to hear my own voice in the ever increasing sound of crying, but also as a silent assurance to the deserted baby that help was on its way.

The white cradle with the white canopy came up so quickly in front of me that I bumped into it. It shook in its meager foundation and on quick reflex I reached out to stop it from tumbling over. 

The crying was at its loudest now, signifying that I had reached my goal. There was no hesitation, only purpose, as I leaned over the white-painted wooden cradle, its interior clad with white cotton. The moment my eyes fell on the crying baby, my heart stopped. With a cry of fear, I fell back one step, putting distance between myself and the baby, but I could still see it clearly. And like watching an accident about to happen, knowing that it would be terrible, I couldn't look away.

The baby's skin was dark gray, almost brownish, and wrinkled. The skin looked sooty, as if it had been rolled in ashes. I could see its sunken black eyes, the (too many) fingers and the (twelve, there were twelve) toes. Its skin looked like dried paper, over-tight on the thin tiny body. 

I tried to swallow past the fear that had built up in my throat. The baby looked mummified, like from one of the poorly made horror movies I had seen when younger. And just like the mummies in the horror movies, this one was alive. 

Even though the baby looked like it had been dead for centuries, its mouth - with its bottomless blackness – was producing the familiar and normal sound of a distressed, and very much alive, infant. Although the baby looked like it had not eaten or drunk anything in years, it was moving its arms in agitation and kicking its legs in frustration.

The deep black eyes flickered to my face and I staggered backwards. The crying continued, with tears rolling from those staring eyes, filling me with the most encompassing grief I had ever felt.

The appeal for forgiveness was instinctive as my hoarse voice mumbled, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." 

Without being able to explain it, I felt responsible for this child. I had made it into what it was. I had abandoned it.

The baby's inconsolable crying was making me start sobbing, and I repeatedly echoed, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

His sudden arms around my waist, hugging my back to his front, did not even surprise me. His presence told my mind that this was a dream, a horrible nightmare. The baby's cries grew louder and more insistent as I turned my back on it to press my face into his chest.

"Make me wake up," I sobbed into his shirt. "Make me wake up."

Immediately answering my prayer, I was returned to consciousness. Returned to the land of the living in Max's room at the Evans' residence. His familiar scent enveloped me, his arms around me making me feel simultaneously small and safe.