A Baby's Soft Spot

All children are born with a soft spot. Even you were. It is an undeveloped mark on a baby's head, and contains no bone in place of the skull surrounding it. When a child grows, the "soft spot" as it is called, will eventually go away. This wasn't the case for my little brother.
I wasn't happy, even though everyone else was ecstatic. When my baby brother was conceived, all the attention vested in me had been transferred to his soon to be arrival. It angered and frustrated me to see him pull the attention away. Though I was only seven at the time, I felt major emotions of hatred already towards my little brother, who hadn't even been born yet.
Leading up to his birth, I only became more and more irritated. On a daily basis, my parents ignored my performance in school, didn't manage to find time to speak to me, and couldn't set aside a specific meal to eat together. They severed their connection with me and only drew themselves at a further and further distance from me every day.
By the time my mother's water had broken and my father had left with her, I felt very little connection to these people. They of course hired a babysitter, who seemed to express just as little care for me as my parents had. By this time, I was independent enough to feed myself and clean up after my own messes; things that my parents found themselves incapable of doing.
For months, my irritation had built up and grown. Every day, my father had shown more and more sloth, and my mother only spent more time than ever indulging in herself. Both of them had utterly sickened me, and all of it stemmed from their new, highly-anticipated baby. They didn't know it, but I watched them. I watched my parents every day and noticed how much they began to change, all from one simple child. Interesting, I thought, how something not even alive had issued so much conflict.
My parents soon burst through the doors with their beloved newborn. My mother held the child high in her hands with a look of joy and love in her eyes. My father greeted my new brother with a stretching grin across his face. I could see newfound happiness in their eyes that before had seemed impossible to obtain. Once again, my parents were overjoyed, and this bothered me.
I had grown feelings of abandonment and hatred towards these people that I no longer considered family. They felt no purpose to call me down to see my new sibling as I watched from the stairwell. The bastard parents of mine and their most beloved possession headed upstairs, directed straight towards where I was sitting. As if I were covert, I silently snuck behind my door, though I'm sure I would've remained unnoticed regardless.
I peered through the crack in my door, watching them rest the child to sleep in his crib. Though elated, I could also tell my parents were exhausted and would soon be in need of sleep. They headed off, leaving my baby brother vulnerable to any impending dangers they may have been able to earlier fend off. Perhaps, in other words, I was one of those dangers.
While my parents made their way down the hall to their bedroom, I crept quickly over to my brother's crib. Though I moved hastily, I put in some effort to ensure they wouldn't hear me as I silently tiptoed to his room. I gazed over his bed. The crib he lay in left him entirely helpless to me. He had no defense up, no protection from my doings. I felt powerful at this moment, as if I had taken complete control and finally would be able to have an impact.
Suspiciously scanning around the room to ensure no one was watching me, I stretched my hands down to the crib. My sleeping brother just inches away from seemed almost motionless. When I finally had reached him, I felt the warmth of him emanating as I watched his stomach fill with air and exhale. I held the child high in front of me as he still remained trapped in his slumber. I watched in interest as his heart pulsated, and I could see the rising and falling of his chest. However, when I peered closer, I noticed his chest wasn't the only body part pulsating.
I saw a lump nearing the back of his head. It grew and then shrunk, and continued to do so. It looked as if there was some sort of balloon under his skull as I watched the child's head grow and shrink in that single spot. I was intrigued at this point, and felt curious to touch this patch of skin on his head. Rather than a hard robust plate of bone, I felt a soft mushy piece of cartilage.
Out of surprise, I jutted my hand away from his head. I held my hand and looked back to the boy in confusion. Still sleeping, I attempted once again to feel the soft spot of flesh. The hole in his head that I had just discovered was his soft spot. As I explained earlier, he differed from other children; his soft spot never went away, and I was the one to thank for it.
Since that night, I had continuously paid my brother a nightly visit to study this spot on his head. Other routines remained the same. My parents treated me as if I didn't exist, my brother was the focal point of the family, and I only grew more indifferent to them as a whole. With the exception of course being my brother. In fact, all my attention was invested in him. Not because I cared for him or liked spending time with him. It was merely due to that intriguing soft spot.
I played with the mushed bunch of cartilage every night, almost to the point of experimentation. My brother never cried, nor oddly never woke. To my surprise, no one had figured to this point what I had been doing.
Months passed. My brother’s soft spot began to gain bone; I wouldn't allow this to happen. I panicked as I soon began testing things on his soft spot. I used the hole in his brain as an entry point for my experimentation. Now with his soft spot fading, I would have no such chance.
In the middle of the night, when I made my routine trip to my brother's room, rather than simply planning for experiments, I brought tools with me. I held a tiny yet capable small metal hammer. Looking to my brother's head, I was now sure I would wake him. I left the room and gathered duct tape. Covering his mouth, I wrapped several rolls around his tiny head, making it impossible to speak.
I firmly held the hammer in hand and looked directly at his soft spot. I gave one last touch to it, feeling the notion of growing bone. I raised my right hand high and looked directly at the target. Slowly, my arm extended tall and rose before his head, tightly gripping my weapon. Then, with a swift whoosh, the hammer hastily sped through the air, pumped forward by the muscle in my arm. It accelerated quickly. Then, right away, it came to a complete stop at it whacked my brother's skull. I heard the thin bone shatter over his muffled cries for help.
Looking at his head, I saw blood fill beneath his skin as he internally bled. His screams and cries only heightened, and I feared they would wake my parents despite the tape around his mouth. Rather than hiding, I stretched my hand and grabbed his mouth, ensuring no sound would escape. He thrashed back and forth, pleading for help, but I wouldn't allow him to get away. Only being months old, he was easy to hold. I hoped he wouldn't alert my parents, but hoped more for his survival, so I may continue feeling his soft spot.
I somehow had grown some obsession over his soft spot; it was as if it were the only thing that comforted me. Something about having direct access to the brain pleased me. I dreamt of experimentations, though I was far too young to create any sort of formula.
Months passed and eventually years as I continued this ritual. My brother seemed to be accustomed to the pain as he grew. Each time I smashed growing tissue in his skull, he appeared to suffer less and less agony. By the time I reached my adolescence, he still had no ability to speak. My parents believed he was mentally challenged, though I knew exactly why his brain hadn't worked.
My parents still expressed equal if not more indifference towards me than before. My feelings for them had however drastically changed. I didn't feel indifferent towards them; I now resented them. I held strong hatred towards them for their lack of presence in my life. The next night, my baby brother wouldn't be the only one in the family with a soft spot.
I sluggishly meandered my way down the creaky hall that led to my parents’ room. After paying the routine visit to my brother, I stretched my limbs into the crack in their doorway. Making as little sound as possible, I entered their bedroom. Filled with the echoing sounds of my father's yawning, I stood before their bed. I held an unbroken gaze at them now while I held my hammer in hand. The same hammer I cracked my brother's skull with now lay inches behind my father's skull. Just as before, I slowly pulled my arm back. I locked it in position, grasped it firmly, and pushed it forward with full throttle.
When it smashed my father's head, his yawn morphed to a resounding yelp. Quickly, I repeated the process; I smashed and smashed his skull repeatedly with the hammer, bashing in his cranium. His screams soon halted. His brains laid splattered around the bed, and the shell of his head rested in shattered pieces around the bed. Thick, sticky plasma spewed from the rest of what was left from his head. My mother gave me a look of awe and was unable to move or speak. I analyzed a look of terror within her.
Approaching her, I held my hammer in hand. My hands now were soggy, drenched in blood. I did not change the direction of my eyes; I fixated them solely on her. I raised my hammer, slowly and steadily. I once again released it, with full reign on her skull.
Both my parents died that night. I of course fled my home, regrettably leaving my brother behind. I have roamed the world for years now looking for that coveted soft spot, so I may once again feel the soothing texture. I have relentlessly searched, and only had a couple of chances. Babies are too difficult to come by, and much more difficult to reach. I have resorted to any form of soft spot available, sometimes visiting strangers in the night.
After a quick and sharp crack to the skull, the brain has a strange way of healing that open area of cartilage. Put your hand on your head, move it to the back center. Do you feel a dimple, an indentation? If you do, I once visited you, and created that "soft spot".
Category:NSFW
Category:Mental Illness