She is just three years old now. I have counted every day since this infernal presence took over my life. Her father died an unnatural death just 40 days after she came. A healthy man with stuffy arms just went a pale black, like wet coal or old blood-drenched rags. The doctors said it was some bug that ate up his veins. I never believed them. It was her. I knew it was her. "We can't be here anymore babe. We have to run somehow", were hislast words to me. But I knew we could not run. Her touch would burn my skin. She looked at me with a cold, blank and unforgiving stare. It was her.

My small apartment always felt colder. I only felt the sun when she was asleep. Running, hiding–nothing worked. When she woke up, I had to be there. Spiked thorns dug out my insides every time I tried to run. It wouldn't stop until I returned. I had to come back, always facing her wrath.

She always wakes up at night and looks at me like I am some prey. These days I just keep the lights off and keep looking at the wall. She wakes up suddenly from her unnatural beeline posture, slowly and ever so gently, like a chained demon would after just hours of calculated slumber. I never look. I don't even want to accept the fact that she exists. I know her bloodshot eyes are preying on my fear.

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These folk tales record a unique past between South Asia and Soviet Russia

Today is the day. It was time for her to leave me. The demon that lived inside my little child for so long, always said it would kill me. Her voice turned every time she said that. Like a trumpet blowing in the dead of the night. A chilling, unnerving voice that felt like needles all over my body. "You will die, you will die, you will die."

Today is the day.

I crept under my sheets. It was cold again, like it has been cold for so long. Her voice turned to a deep rumble, ordering me to look at her.

I have been living like a puppet on strings for the past three years. I fed her. Every day her dark soul grew stronger. My little child, ever lost and unborn. She was never my daughter. She was a vessel for the insurgent from hell. Somehow, after three-long years, it feels like a sigh of relief. A life taken, but freed.

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Song of the Sky: Nonfiction inspired by Joyce

The small hands caressed my forehead while I crept under my sheets. It was cold again, like it has been cold for so long. Her voice turned to a deep rumble, ordering me to look at her. Her eyes were lost under tangled and wet hair. Yet I knew, the silhouette of the motionless toddler was unblinking, looking at its prey. My beating heart pressed against my ribs, like an overweight coat hanging in a cramped closet. I had to look, or I would be forced to. My hollow mouth with half of a tongue screamed in silence. Finally, I will be free. Dead and free from her. All dead.

She left again. Hunting for new prey.

Kazi Mahdi Amin is a seasonal poet, casual writer, and a full time keyboard warrior.