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Someone, please, help me. I haven't got the slightest clue of what to do, and maybe I'm just racked with paranoia for him, but Kitrye has been getting worse and worse ever since that fateful day...

There must be something about those days. The days that are perfectly normal. Too normal. Those days where a tiny voice in the back of your head gets it's teeth stuck together with chewing gum or something, but it just won't say a thing when it should, when it should be warning with a twinge of premonition, "Now, Latpas, you can't really think that this is honestly a normal day, now can you? Something's up." This was one of those days.

I should've known it wasn't going to be normal right from it's casual little normal start. It was a Wednesday; really, I should've been suspicious from the moment I woke up -- I never have had too much luck with Wednesdays, aside from the fact that I was born on one. Just like normal, I got up and went to the adjacent room where Kitrye slept, to find him bright-eyed and huddling in the corner of his crib, as usual. I scooped him up into my arms like I always do, and he cringes and shrinks away from me until he's just a raven-haired, cream-skinned ball, shivering in the chill of the morning and clutching onto that old dead rose like there's no tomorrow. He glares at me reproachfully, and his lower lip starts to wobble like he's ready to loose a river of tears, but he just curls up in my arms, kind of shrinks into his clothes so that no part if his skin could be close to me, just business as usual.

Breakfast was a boring, normal affair, filled with silence from his high chair, and motherly cooings from my seat across the table. Kitrye poked listlessly at his breakfast, a bowl of some green-purple mush that I don't think any infant of relative intelligence would even consider eating, but is supposedly good for them, and gazed ruefully at me again.

"Come on, Kit," I urged softly, using the only pet name that he didn't react violently or loudly to, although from his surly, sorrowful countenance, I'm pretty sure he didn't enjoy it much either. "Eat up!"

Kitrye shook his head stubbornly. I sighed and pushed myself away from the table to go on another expedition through the refrigerator, looking for something, anything that Kitrye would eat. I perused the labels silently, feeling the welcome chill of the refrigerator wash over and through me. Aha! I thought triumphantly. There was something I hadn't tried before! Applesauce. Every child's favorite food. Except mine, which didn't really explain why I had half a jar of it.

I spooned some of the chilly half liquid-half solid into a bowl and set it in front of Kitrye. He eyed it suspiciously for a moment, then sniffed it, and slurped some up. Assessing that it was nothing harmful, he grappled with his spoon for a moment before deciding against using it, leaned down over it, and practically inhaled it. He leaned back in his high chair, applesauce dripping off his chin onto his spotless bib, and emitted a small pleased burp.

If only I hadn't given him that applesauce! If only I had somehow managed to coax him into eating the nameless puce-pea green sludge. I realize that it's a bit late for that, as I rest my arms nervously on the restraining bar of his crib, watching his cough and scratch miserably at the itchy, puffy crimson hives that have broken out all over his body. You see, dearest reader, Kitrye allergic to apples, in any form thereof. If only, one month ago, when Kitrye was delivered to me, they had told me of his allergy! And with a nasty, sneaking suspicion that this is going to be a devastating ordeal, I realize that it is, also, too late for that.

About thirty seconds after he finished his sloppy meal, crimson red hives began to bubble up on his pale skin. Shocked, I grappled with the phone and punched in the number of the first pediatrician I could find in the Yellow Pages, and explained to him my situation in a (most likely) overly loud and high-pitched voice. Calmly, and with an exasperated air, he told me Kitrye must have had an allergic reaction, and that he was off to his lunch break, thankyouverymuchhaveaniceday. I dropped the phone, my pride slightly injured by the doctor's tone, and shouted something excessively profane, before glancing back to Kitrye.

He was watching the hives puff up on his arms with an expression nearly as worried as my own. I scooped him up with little resistance on his part and carted him to his crib. I ransacked the cabinets in the bathroom for the Benadryl, and scurried to his bedroom, where he was coughing pitifully. After dosing him with the viscous purple liquid, I leaned on the eadge of the crib and waited for a tense ten... twenty... thirty minutes. Finally, his coughing subsided and his hands stopped searching for new places to scratch. I exhaled, tremendously relieved.

That was two days ago. In the following forty-eight hours after the incedent, I tried coaxing him with toys and picture books when he seemed well enough, resorted to sulking and hovering nervously over him when he didn't. I wasn't really sure what to do, with his being so small, so weak, and so, well, positively inhuman.

Later the next day, in a burst of exasperation, inspiration, and, most likely, hysteria, I took a trip to the general store and roved the aisles, searching for something, anything, that could make Kitrye happy during his illness. I rushed down one aisle, up the next, nothing catching my eye, until I came upon it. A tiny silver music box, so small and delicate that I'm not quite sure how I spotted it among the super soakers and the Legos. Mystified, I opened it; as the hinges creaked open, a rush of notes tumbled forth, persistenly playing some melancholy tune I didn't recognize, and, resting on a pad of silk, a tiny glass rose, meticulously stained in the crimson and emerald rose-colours, and thoughtfully wrought. I purchased the music box, feeling triumphant at last, and made my way home to Kitrye.

I must say that I hit the nail of making Kitrye happy right on the head. He absolutely loved it. He would wind the tiny springs again and again, playing the unfamiliar tune endlessly. His eyes brightened and gleamed each time he heard it. I took to listening to it also, when he was sound asleep, enchanted by the tune just as he was. One night, I think, about five nights after the incedent, I was winding the music box and the delicate crank snapped off in my hand. Horrified, I opened and closed the box rapidly to see if it would still work. A few feeble notes burbled out, then nothing. The music box would never play again, from the way the tiny crank knob was twisted and broken.

A whimper drifted over from Kitrye's crib. I tore my eyes from the broken silver box, fearing the worst. Kitrye was awake. I was caught. Red-handed. Guilty. Case closed. My mouth opened and closed a few times, emitted only embarrassed squeaks. A few seconds passed, and then the wailing, the crying, the flood of tears, began.

I don't know how long he cried. It could've been days, it could've been ten minutes. I rushed to his crib and scooped him up, repeating, "I'm so sorry, so sorry!" over and over again like it would solve everything. He screeched and shoved me away.

I slumped back into my chair, exhausted. Kitrye quieted the slightest bit, and I began to hum the music-box tune. His sobs calmed to sniffles, and he began to hum along with me. Our gentle humming grew and rose to a dull roar of the soaring, sad song, and Kitrye's face brightened. That instant, as his perpetually doleful features nearly broke into a shy smile, I knew, music box or not, that everything would be just fine.