Bath Time
by Stuart Young

Jordan had an erection.

Katie recoiled from her baby son, caught off guard by his young body’s reaction to her touch. Jordan gurgled up at her happily as water trickled from the wet flannel in Katie’s hand, back into the bath.  

Everyone -- friends, relatives, social workers -- had told Katie how brave she was to keep the baby. It wasn’t easy being a single mum, especially in her particular circumstances. After all, it wasn’t as though there was any hope of the father giving her any help. But Katie thought she could cope. She had to cope. She had been through too much to let this beat her.  

So she gave birth to Jordan, fed him and nurtured him, the resentment at the upheaval of her young life gradually fading into the background. That morning, as she started bathing Jordan, Katie found herself marvelling at his bald head and tubby belly. And his tiny fingers, so small and delicate, yet they would grow to be thick and strong, far stronger than hers. And his crumpled features, not yet fully defined, as though his personality was waiting to be stamped upon them. She felt that Jordan was no longer just an unwanted responsibility that had been thrust suddenly upon her but now, finally, perhaps he was someone she could begin to love.  

Her son.  

It felt strange. But kind of nice.  

She smiled at Jordan. He stared up at her in the wide-eyed wonderment of the very young as he read her expression. Then, satisfied that everything was all right in the world, he smiled back.  

Katie continued washing him. Her hands moved down to his hairless testicles, wiping the flannel over them. Then she took hi foreskin between finger and thumb and delicately pulled it back so she could wash his glans. That was when he got his erection.  

Katie stared at it. The tiny finger of flesh looked ridiculous, it wasn’t as if he even knew what to do with it.   She wrung out the flannel, the material twisting in her hands so that it mimicked the twining of a rope. When it was dry Katie placed the flannel on the tiles besides the taps.  

Then she drowned Jordan.  

One hand pressed down on his forehead, keeping his head under the soapy water. The other hand pushed on his chest, ensuring that his struggling body didn’t twist free. Bubbles rushed from Jordan’s nose and mouth, breaking the surface of the water. His arms thrashed wildly -- slapping frantically against Katie’s -- but they were too small and frail. His eyes bulged, full of panic and betrayal.  

And then he was still.  

Katie stumbled back from the bath, panting for breath. Then she started sobbing and her legs went out from under her, leaving her sitting awkwardly on the floor. Only one thought ran through her numbed brain: she shouldn’t have done it, she shouldn’t have done it, she shouldn’t have done it. On and on in an endless loop of horrified denial.  

But in that one insane moment it was the only way she could think of to get back at the bastard who had raped her.  

By killing his son.  

©2002 Stuart Young

Stuart Youngt has had stories published by Roadworks, Legend, Dark Horizons and Darkness Rising amongst others. He also writes occasional reviews for the British Fantasy Society.