With the loud smack of breaking suction he removes his mouth from his mother’s nipple and speaks his first words, “well fuck ma, you couldn’t possibly be more inept. Where’s the milk?”
Wilbur could talk. Maybe always could, but at age eleven-months, those were the first words he chose to speak to Lavinia Whateley. From there, things got worse. He already smelt bad, had fur under his diaper and stick-thin legs that ended in hooves, which he used to kick and scratch to show his disapproval of Lavinia’s mothering before, but now it seems the cork was sprung and every thought behind those beady black eyes came bubbling forth from his ugly chinless mouth.
Even for a witch this too much. Lavinia tried to love him and his twin, she really did.
It’s her fault they are even here.
And it floods back to her- that moment of their conception- the radiation pouring off him, eating at her sanity and her skin and future.
His sperm splitting her egg perfectly in two, creating different beasts. One a miracle, the coming of the next generation of Ancient Ones, other a hideous child with a potty mouth.
The images and deeds of their night together tickle her brain. Oh, how she longs for his return.
Then she finds herself wondering- as her eyes return to her issue- maybe not so hideous if there is any value in a sacrificial offering. Deep in thought, she places the infant on the floor and he scurries off with clicking hooved feet to his room while calling her a few names to show his displeasure at an interrupted meal.
Before slamming the door he gives her the middle finger.
She doesn’t care, her mind turning to an increasingly common fantasy, one maybe the old man can help her fulfill with a trip to Miskatonic and another quick search of the Necronomicon.
And she smiles hopeful again and relishes it before it fades.