The Fifth Child

The other four kids were quiet and docile. My wife and I are artists and need stable peace at home. Sometimes we put pills in their orange juice to sedate them. Art is important.
We hug them on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 4 to 5pm. That is usually sufficient affection.
The fifth child was an accident. There were differences. He stayed in the womb ten full months, refusing to come out. We named him Gunther. Pale blue eyes, a shock of blonde hair. He didn't gurgle; he just glared, even when breast feeding. Crawling led to an attack on the cat. He bit one of his siblings on the thigh. Caught flies in his hands and swallowed them.
We noticed a tiny tail growing out of his butt. Our pediatrician was afraid to examine him. The Church took a wait and see attitude. He snarled at priests, spit in the Holy Water.
Gunther chewed on our paintings at night. Our other kids moved in with their grandparents. My wife and I began drinking.  Gunther's first word was triage. He spoke in garbled Latin and screamed if we did not dress him in black.
I sense further problems up the road in pre-school.