January 11th, 2011 was a big day for my friends back home; Brandon and his girlfriend Shelby had their first baby. He was a month early, but is healthy. His name is Brayden Lee and I can’t wait to meet him.
Along with seeing this brand new baby and the love that Shelby has for him, I can’t help but feel envious. I’m proud of her for having him (because she’s still finishing high school), and for surviving the difficult birth process, but every time I see a picture of him, or read a text from her about the baby, I get jealous. But I can’t even describe the feeling as jealous; it’s more than jealousy. It’s like this feeling that she’s so much better/happier. She has every right to be happy because she just had this miracle happen, but I still can’t get over how young and immature I feel for not having a baby.
Now, enter “We Need to Talk About Kevin” into this picture. I’m only 116 pages in (out of 400), but already this book is living up to its place on the list of “The 10 Most Disturbing Books of All Time“. I can separate fact from fiction, and this books isn’t even based on a true story, but it’s pulling me in. At points, I want to cry. Other times, I want to punch the wall because it makes me angry. And then other times, I feel numb, cold; like I’ll never be able to feel emotions again.
Already I can say that I would not recommend this book to anyone unsure about having children. I, someone who has wanted kids from the moment I knew they existed, am suddenly unsure that babies are right for me. I keep picturing them like the character in the book does;
Ever notice how many films portray pregnancy as an infestation, as colonization by stealth? Rosemary’s Baby was just the beginning. In Alien, a foul extraterrestrial claws its way out of John Hurt’s belly. In Mimic, a woman gives birth to a two-foot maggot. Later, the X-Files turn bug-eyes aliens bursting gorily from human midsections into a running theme. In horror and sci-fi, the host is consumed or rent, reduced to a husk or residue so that some nightmare creature may survive its shell.
And I’m completely freaked out. I’ve seen movies about monsters that are born from regular pregnant women with no symptoms. How do I know that I won’t be a host for a monster as well? Not so much monster as in a maggot with claws, but a monster as in a baby that will grow into a serial killer, or a cannibal or something equally terrifying. How could I cope with the knowledge that something I nourished, protected and then expelled from my body would grow up only to take the lives of others?
I’m sorry if talk like this freaks you out, but this is the only thing sticking to the inside of my head right now; images of a terrible fetus who is killing me slowly, but not so fast that I, the one who will nurse it, give it immunities and such, will be dead before it’s big enough to do awful things to other people.
This book definitely belongs on that list.