Zero

I am numb.

There is a bitter taste on my tongue, reminiscent of coffee.
No matter how much sugar I add, the bitter still lingers.

It's like there is an infection festering in my right hand.
My brain works double-time, humming and buzzing,
Like gears in a machine,
As I try to bring my unborn child to life on the blank piece of paper.

With sure strokes, my child begins to fill the page.

Over my unsure shoulder, a shot is fired.
I can only stare as I am once again dragged to the floor,
The venomous words slash my hopes and dreams, like always.
I lay there, motionless, as the spleen of a saint is vented upon me.

By the time I get up, my child is dying.
I gaze at my screen littered with sketch lines,
Soft eyes and a happy smile glance back.
And with a final sigh, I finish off the job my mother started.

I close the screen, and kill it.
It wouldn't have lived long anyways.