Birth.

Life used to be good. I would jump out of bed every morning, fresh as a lark. I would bike to my neighborhood elementary school, playing with my classmates, laughing, joking, making new friends. I would reach home around 3pm, finish my homework, play my favorite games on my computer, doing everything I could possibly desire in life. Every evening, my father would arrive back from work, a benign smile on his face, and I …

…filled with yellow mist. There were locks and locks of white hair sprouting from its scalp, seemingly alive and moving. Its skin was bleeding and swollen, crimson blood staining my mother's clothes. It had five long, bony arms. Where there would have been legs, were an uncountable amount of slimy tentacles, grotesquely waving about. Not dead. A thousand times worse. A tiny, minuscule eye peeked out from its forehead. It began to wail. "Mama......Mama......"