I'm gonna be real.
She holds me, or tries to. I feel her thin, shaking hand resting on her stomach, saying words in her soothing voice, but I still hear her pain. She hasn't moved in a while, I feel her legs crossed beneath me, her hands constantly stroking her stomach, lulling me into sleep. I want to see her face, see what she looks like. It'll be like looking at a future me. I just want to make her proud.
Make sure she never regrets me.
What's happening? Light seeps through my little home... Is it time? No, it cant be. It's too soon. I'm still ugly; skin unformed, eye's like lizards: Black and lidless. So what's happening? I feel a slash at my feet, something sharp, hooked. It thrashes around, trying to get me. At first it misses me, and hooks onto mommy's flesh, but then it gets me, cutting my pink stomach open, pulling me down. Mommy? What's happening? It's not my time yet, why am I being ripped from you? The tugs get harder, like all guilt has been forgotten.
I am exposed.
My little legs now outside of her, the rest of me catching up. No, mommy, don't do it.
I cling onto the cords and flesh around me, her sobs are now groans and yells. Mommy, stop hurting yourself, stop hurting me. She doesn't stop, she keeps pulling. I'm sliding out, but I'm still holding on.
I think I'm hurting her.
I claw at her womb, grip onto any thing within reach, but I'm no match for her determined, hateful tugs.
I thought she loved me, and as she pulled me out entirely, I realised I was wrong. I looked at her for the first and last time, took in her tear-drenched, brown eyes, her thin lips, and every strand of hair on her head. It was the only image I'd end up seeing, the feature we should have shared. I looked at her, not understanding, but realising, I was so wrong.
I started off so innocent, but then I met boys. They do that: rip your innocence up into shreds.
It's like a black and white movie, except for the blood. That's crimson, nothing but crimson. My blood. It's so unreal in the clean bathroom, there's more of it than I imagined. My hands won't stop shaking, my body's so sore. It's gone, the body. It was small enough to disguise in the trash, so I put it in a plastic bag, along with the hanger. I can't get the way it looked at me out of my head. Like it had just felt the worst betrayal possible; like it's world, hopes, dreams, fears, had come crashing down on it's fragile little soul. But it was hardly alive, so that's my imagination, right? Its eyes cant be open yet, right? Right? It wouldn't know anything. Nothing at all. I want to sit here forever, in this moment of relief, like after the great flood, when all the colours come out, I want time to stop, for me. But I know I should really get cleaned up before my parents get back home, if they knew what i'd done, it'd be worse than them finding out I was pregnant.
I didn't think it'd be so hard, seeing as I never knew the thing, but i think it was the hardest choice I've ever had to make; I didn't want to regret it. And I think I did the right thing. But if i did, then why am I crying so much?