Too Much To Hide || EDITING

c.1

      Can I be in more shock than I am now? It depends on what happens next. My brain is still trying to fathom the messily ripped piece of cardboard in between my fingers. Scruffy handwriting is sprawled across it. It looks hurried, as if the person was under a time limit while writing it.

     In my other arm, I am cradling an child no older than a year. How in the world did it get to bask in the comforts of my arm, snoozing quietly with a dirty blanket wrapped around it? I... am still trying to fathom that too.

      Now that I have a closer look at the blanket, I realize it's dirtier than it seems. An old stench wafts from the matted material. The poor child doesn't mind it though; it continues its doze, plump lips pursing and parting after each breath.

      I abandon the note, still unread, and wonder upstairs. I am careful not to wake the child because I do not want it to get accustomed to me... yet. I reach my bedroom and head for my drawers, pulling one out. The feat is a lot harder while you're balancing the weight of a tiny body in one grasp.  

      Finally, I manage to shuffle out the relentless drawer and reach for one of my clean blankets for the time being. I haven't used it in a while so I don't mind.

      It is too much effort to attempt to shut the wood so I retreat back downstairs, onto the couch and in front of the table where I left the mysterious note.

      My eyes fall on the sleeping child and a pang of guilt and pity attacks my conscience. What a tough start to life. I am yet to know of its mother; perhaps the note explains more. But before that, I am determined to provide a cleaner comfort for the infant.

      Carefully, I peel back the white, now stained brown, fluff blanket from its careless wrap. It must have been such a soft material before being used and battered like it is now. One chubby, pale arm comes into view. The baby's hand, half the size of a tennis ball, is fisted on their chest which rises and falls softly.

      As I unravel the rest of the blanket, I identify that it's a boy. I gently slide the material off his head and flattened curls of hazel sprawl out. Such luscious hair for such a young child? My envy is crackling.

      The baby boy is strip naked except for the white diaper wrapped around his waist. It looks a lot cleaner than the blanket and, judging by the absence of any odor, I assume it's freshly worn. Thank God for that.

      His chest begins to move hastily. Forming a pout, his brows furrow from the loss of warmth. Eyes widened, I quickly cuddle him in my own blanket and pray that it doesn't wake him. 

      Twitching his small button nose, his brows relax as he unravels his fist to clutch the new blanket, seemingly satisfied with its presence. A sigh of relief escapes my lips as the baby lulls into another peaceful round of slumber.

      Who is this little bundle of lazy joy? It all seems so cliché; a child appears at my doorstep and I will have to take care of it. Surely, there is more to it than that? Suddenly remembering the note that came with the snoozing package, I reach forward and take it.

      I blink at its lack of information. Just a brief skim shows me it's only two or three sentences long. Whoever wrote this had to be the mother. I doubt anyone else was willing to change this child's diaper. Shaking my head, I read the whole thing properly.

A loving home is all I ask for this sweet child. It's best
if I stay away from him, for his own safety.
Whatever you may do, stay away from his father.

      Stay away from his father? Is that what compelled the mother to ditch him in the first place? Maybe he was not accepting of his birth or... no. I shouldn't think about it too much. I look out the window; the sky is now coated in dark oranges and rising midnight blues. I guess I can bear the child for one night. After that, I will have to make sure he gets to a good adoption center.

      He hums a little in his sleep and a small smile graces my features. He is indeed very cute and, quite frankly, rather attractive for an infant. Surely, he will grow up to impress all the women. I can't help but think he inherited his looks from his father.

      Who is he then? Is he young or old? And why on Earth does the note warn me to keep him away from the child? Various reasons run through my head but none seem convincing enough. The baby looks so... so innocent. They all do.

      A rattling series of knocking startles me. The infant stirs before settling back into his dream world. Once again, I gaze out of the window. Rain has started pattering against the glass.Contemplating the circumstances, I get a strange feeling about my visitor.

      Careful not to disturb him, I place the baby comfortably on the couch and line two of my cushions on the edge to prevent him from rolling towards the precipice of the sofa. I tentatively haul myself up and make my way to the door, counting to ten. When I reach, I keep a keen grip on the door handle.

      Taking a fleeting deep breath, I twist and open it a quarter of the way, leaning towards the threshold.

      The weather has dampened my visitor's hair. It makes him look menacing, especially in the single light of my doorstep lamp that shines in a gloomy yellow. The light strikes his sharp nose and piercing scowl and I cautiously gaze up to his eyes. I really wish I hadn't.

      They are a shocking blue that holds the darkness of resent and anger behind them. Behind the wet hair plastered on his forehead, his brows are creased and support his scowl. It is safe to say that he looks terrifying.

      "Can I help you?" I mutter timidly,clutching the edge of my white oak door.