Page 4 of Hush, Little Baby

It doesn’t.

One after another falls, tracking down into my hairline as I stare at the bright, happy colors on the screen.

I don’t make a sound.

I just… cry.

My fingers tighten in the plushie’s fur, bunching it up as I pull it closer, like if I hold it tight enough, it might hold me back.

It doesn’t, either.

Nothing really does.

A hiccuping breath breaks out of me before I can stop it, and I press my face harder into the soft fabric, curling in on myself more.

“I tried,” I whisper around my thumb, words slurring slightly. “I really tried…”

Every appointment, every test, every time I forced myself out of bed when my body felt like it was made of concrete. Every time I explained the same symptoms over and over and watched someone’s eyes glaze over halfway through.

“Everything’s negative.”

“No need for a follow-up.”

My chest squeezes painfully, and I let out a small, broken sound, squeezing my eyes shut.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I murmur, voice barely there. “I don’t—I don’t know how to fix it…”

And no one else seems to want to find out.

That’s the part that hurts the most.

Not just the pain. Not just the exhaustion.

It’s the way people stop trying.

Like I’m not worth the effort.

Because I’m too complicated. Too inconvenient. Too… much.

Another tear slips down, soaking into the plushie.

“I just want someone to take care of me,” I admit softly, the words fragile and a little embarrassed as they leave my mouth. “Just for a little bit…”

My grip loosens after a minute, the tension draining out of me as the crying fades into quiet sniffles. The movie keeps playing, unchanged and cheerful, and completely disconnected from the heaviness sitting in my chest.

Eventually, my breathing evens out again. The exhaustion settles deeper, heavier now that I’ve cried, like it’s seeped the last little bit of energy out of me.

I tuck one leg up and drag a nearby blanket over myself. It smells faintly like laundry detergent and something sweet—maybe from one of the other littles who was here earlier.

My thumb slips from my mouth after a while, my hand dropping lazily to rest against my chest as I stare at the screen, blinking slower and slower.

I’ll just take a little nap.

2

Nikolaus

I don’t look out the window. There’s nothing out there I haven’t already seen, nothing that requires my attention more than the tablet in my hand. My thumb scrolls through the report, eyes catching every inconsistency, every delay, every detail someone else thought was small enough to overlook.