My Child!

"Give me the child!" said a man with long fingers like daggers and a beard like a scimitar. His eyes shined bright red.

"No," Lucy's voice echoed in the black void. Somehow she was a fifteen-year-old girl again, and a baby was in her hands. She didn't know who he was, maybe her little brother, but she didn't have one. Whoever it was, she wanted to hug him ever tighter.

"Give me the—"

"No," she said, running back. The water chirped beneath her feet until she hit a wall. The wall started to become taller and taller, and the ground cracked, and she fell in. She held tight to the baby, and his beating heart comforted her. She fell to the ground, and the baby slipped from her hands. Needles pierced her ears as he began to cry. She rushed to hold him, but the man grabbed her by the neck and lifted her.

"Give him to me." His heavy voice echoed.

"Why do you want him?" 

"Because you don't."

"That's not true."

"So, you do want him?"

"I…" 

The baby cried. She bit the man's thumb; he cried, losing his grip. She grabbed the baby and made a run.

"He's not yours," said the man.

The air ruffled her hair, and dirt slapped her. She coughed as a car rushed before her. She stumbled back, but a car honked at her. Then a red Toyota appeared before her, and the air soothed, slowing everything. She drove it, but not her fifteen-year-old self, her old self in late twenties. Without knowing, she closed her eyes. She heard a screeching of tires, then a cry of a baby. She opened them, and the man was in front of her. She stepped back, gasping. 

"Did I… kill him?" she asked, looking at the baby.

"No, but you would. You're not worthy."

"But he's…."

"Yours?"

"I don't know."

The man pointed left, and a wooden door appeared there. It was her home's front door.

"Give me the child, and take the riches buried there."

She looked at the door, then at the man. "Why should I trust you?"

"You can check."

 She walked toward it. 

"You can't take him from me, can you?" She stopped and looked back. "You want me to give him to you. But I would never." She stepped forward. The man's eyes widened in surprise; the baby laughed. 

"You like it, don't you?" she said, smiling at him, and he smiled back. She stepped forward again, and the man stepped back, his hands trying to hold something. The baby laughed again.

"Why?" the man whispered.

"Well, because… I like him."

"And?"

"He likes me too, and I don't think he would ever like a man with sticks for fingers."

"Give him to me!"

"No."

"Why?" He shouted.

"Because he's mine!" she shouted back.

"But you are giving me away," he whispered.

"What?"

"Lucy, Lucy, oh, wake up, they are here." Her mom shook her again and again.

"Mine…min…mine," she whispered and woke up. Sunshine beamed down on her, and a chubby woman stood by her. She was wearing an apron. Her round eyes and thick eyebrows frowned.

"They are here," she said.

"Who?"

"Your sister. Is John still sleeping?"

A baby slept in a green cradle to her left. 

"Yes," she said.

"Well, I don't want to do this early, but she's early, so…."

"Do what?" Her head was still sleepy.

"Give John to her."

"Why?" her sleep was gone, and she stared into her mother's blue eyes.

"You said you can't take care of him after… he died."

"I… changed my mind."

"Why?" she sounded just like the man, and she said to her what she said to him, "He's mine."