Sweet Child of Mine

By:Zynni Hartman

Content Warning: Death

When she saw the fleshy toe sticking through the shrubbery, her first instinct was to double-check her pouch. She thought one of her own had escaped and had gone to hide in the tall grasses to give her a heart attack. Such were the antics of her mischievous litter. She had awoken from her daytime slumber to the sound of crunching leaves and soft whines. After seeing that everyone was safely tucked away, she lay on the edge of their burrow and shimmied out slowly to catch the potential threat off guard. She thought about waiting it out; maybe this creature would move on. The closer she crept, the more unnerved she felt. Something deep in her gut was sending warning signals, but still, the opossum approached the glen.

The toe began to wiggle. Unsure if this was a threat, she braced herself for an attack and rushed into the grasses, hissing and baring her pointed teeth. Upon seeing what she was about to attack, she stopped short in utter confusion. The creature before her let out a screech and a long wail that sent shards of ice through the opossum’s bloodstream.

It was a preposterous thing to see so deep in the woods. It was sitting on its rear, legs splayed in front. Its arms, covered in rolls, were swinging as it thrust its balled fists into its eyes. Its chubby face was slick with tears and snot, mouth still opened in a frightened cry. It had some material on its legs but the rest of its body was smooth, hairless, albeit covered in mud and scratches. It was a baby. A human baby. The hair on the back of the opossum’s neck raised. If there was a baby around, that meant its human adults were somewhere close. She darted back towards the burrow to hide and waited for the humans to come back. It was unnatural to stay awake when the sun was out, but for some reason the opossum was determined to wait for their return. The baby reminded her of her own babies, how they were small and pink and vulnerable. Someone would be back for it, and she would make sure, if only to calm her own nerves. When the sun’s rays stretched into the trees, the opossum left the den again to survey the area. It would be night soon, and her babies would wake for something to eat. She stalked closer to where the baby had been before and saw no sign. her own babies, how they were small and pink and vulnerable. Someone would be back for it, and she would make sure, if only to calm her own nerves. When the sun’s rays stretched into the trees, the opossum left the den again to survey the area. It would be night soon, and her babies would wake for something to eat. She stalked closer to where the baby had been before and saw no sign. Contented, she pushed her thoughts of the baby to the back of her mind and began searching for food.

A twig snapped, echoing in the evening twilight that bathed the forest in sinister shadows. The opossum scurried toward the sound, trying to keep quiet. Peering through the grass, her senses became attuned to the hawk that stood staring at a small lump on the ground. The hawk cawed and moved to strike the creature. The opossum saw the baby on the ground, deep in sleep, unaware of its imminent fatality.

There was no thought, no hesitation—the opossum lunged toward the hawk, screeching and tearing with her claws, putting herself in front of the child. The sounds of the quarrel caused the babe to wake, and it resumed its terrified howls. At the sound of this alarm, the hawk faltered, and the opossum swiped at its eye, slicing it deep enough that the hawk let out a shrill cry and flew away.

The opossum’s torso rumbled; the excitement had woken her babies. She turned back to the crying human and began to rub her head on its legs and tummy, slowly and softly, licking a few of its scratches. The baby’s piercing yells soothed into sniffles and coos.

In this time, the woods had transformed again. The sun was gone and the moon shone brightly above, and the orchestra of the night had begun: the chirping of cicadas, buzzing of crickets, wind rattling through the hollows of dead trees, and the cacophony of growls and howls of nightcrawlers rising from their rests. As she sat beside the alien child and continued to play with it, she wondered what she was doing. A level of trust had been formed between this human baby and wild animal, for reasons she could not imagine. The opossum was forced to think of their next steps. She had waited all day for the humans to return, but hardly a soul had come near the area since she had been stirred awake. It seemed as though it was abandoned. She couldn’t leave a baby defenseless in the woods.

Her babies were hungry. They poked and prodded within her pouch, eager to explore. She would need to move on soon; it wasn’t plausible for her to take the human as her own. She looked at the baby again—it was petting her fur and smiling, its chubby cheeks spread wide. She knew the animals in the forest would see this baby as a game, taking for granted its innocence, its friendliness. They would tease it before consuming it, enjoying the juiciness of its infant fat. She knew this, so she rose into a crouch and, faster than the baby could catch on, closed her jaw around its neck, sunk in her teeth, and tore away. The baby didn’t cry. It let out a few hiccups, then fell silent on the crumpled leaves.

The opossum turned away and began its trek to find a new burrow and something for her babies to eat.