I’ve always known there was something different about my son. He was born special. Yes, yes I know all fathers say that, but this is different. My boy is a god and I’m not talking metaphorically.
I don’t mean that he’ll grow to be a music genius, that he’s a maths wiz, or that he could run in a touchdown before he’s even out of diapers. I mean that he’s a god, a deity and a terrifying one at that.
I’ve done my research and I’m well read on my ancient gods but I have no clue as to who my son is. We’ve called him Dylan. It wasn’t my choice, but he hasn’t objected…yet.
He’s insatiable: always wanting, always demanding. He laps up our worship, the tithes, and other offerings presented to him. He laps them up and he wants more. I buy him more toys, more books, more DVDs anything that will appease him. My wife says I spoil him and, if he were a normal child, I would have to agree with her. Yet, he isn’t and I am not. I’m doing this to protect us, to protect my wife. He needs sacrifices and more of them each day.
My wife has become his guardian. Whether she realises this consciously, I couldn’t say. She is by his side day and night, feeding him, changing him, worshiping him. There is nothing I can do about that. I tried to explain the truth to her but she thinks I’m being funny. If I press the matter, she says she hasn’t the time to look after two babies and vanishes once again into his nursery.
I won’t go in there if I can help it, not anymore and not alone. Do you know how creepy is it watching a little boy give a great oration to a room full of stuffed animals? Do you know how it feels to see a hundred pairs of glassy eyes fixed with adoration on a creature no taller than the coffee table? They sit in silence, awestruck by their great commander. They won’t remain still for long. I can feel it.
He started talking over a month ago. My wife thinks is funny: baby talk and babble. I know it for what it really is. I can hear every word. Each night, he whispers to me through the baby monitor. His new voice is nothing but hushed tones and static crackles but I can hear him. He tells me what he is, tells me what he’s planned for us, for this world. He wants to bathe once again in the reverence of his believers and the blood of the heretics. He wants a return to the old days, wants to rule the Earth. I don’t know why he tells me these things. Maybe he does so to torment me, maybe he’s toying with me. I’m not sure.
I can’t remember the last time I slept in the same bed as my wife but maybe that’s for the best now. I don’t think she’d understand why I keep a gun beneath my pillow. I don’t think she’ll understand what I need to do.