Wendigo

The first thing I notice is the rotten smell. Putrid by all definition of the word, seeping through the roof of my mouth and absorbing on my tongue. Wanting to cough, but not quite finding the strength to do so, my body quivers. Struggling to open my eyes, I’m met with a blur of shapes, and I deduct that I’m laying on the kitchen floor; the chill of the tile becoming buried in my bones.

“It’s all going to be okay baby, momma’s making dinner” A melodic voice echoes in my ears, causing me to look up- or try to -in the direction it had come from.

What is a normal sentence to most, makes my insides double over. She hums a syrupy sweet song that resonates with me like liquid medicine. You know the one they tell you tastes like cherries but goes down in a horrible make you want to vomit, kind of way that tells you, you’ve been tricked.

Grasping at the empty contents of my stomach, my dry mouth opens.

“Mm..” scratches out of my throat, leaving a painful sting.

“Shhhhh, baby, it’s nearly ready”

Fingers twitch forward, finding themselves covered in a wet something I know the name of, but my mind drifts. The pins and needle sensation itching under my skin makes it hard to focus on anything else.

Hearing the sticky footsteps paired with the growing humming, I try to will myself up, but cold hands grasp at my head and gently lifted it. Eyes closed, I gulp down whatever it is that she’s feeding me, starting to chew on a chunk of something, with only one thought on my aching brain.

Where’s dad?