This poor baby. His mother is dead inside. She is dead. I hope she dies. She deserves it. Few people do. I mean, in my eyes. I don't use that sacred wish lightly. I reserve it for the special ones. His father is a sad human being. Not equally as fucked morally, but more fucked in other ways. He overdosed minutes after returning from an AA meeting on the other side of my bedroom wall. In the room where his baby lay sleeping. His bastard of a girlfriend providing him the drugs. He has no sympathy or compassion or care for anything other than himself. Actually, I've convinced myself, he's as bad as she.

They have an artificial air about them. The way they conduct themselves around their baby. They fake it all. They fake their love, they fake their amusement, they fake their own happiness to the point they might believe it themselves. They fake their smiles and laughter and interest in their own child. I know this because I know what happens when they believe no one is around and when they are under the influence and the true monsters inside of them come out uncloaked. They are despicable. They generally disgust me. That poor baby.

He's pretty cool. But I distance myself. They always want to hand him off so not to have to deal with him. They had him to be pity'd by everyone, my mother and stepfather the biggest suckers.