I killedmy mother.
Or so I am told.
I tore my way, screaming and shrieking, into this gods-forsaken world, rending her womb to gory shreds, leaving behind a gushing flood of blood, ebbing away her
soul, before the first torrents of air rushed into my tiny lungs.
I slipped from her body, cord still attached to the corpse that had been the vessel of my creation, and fell screaming as loud as my miniaturebody would allow, to
the floor, at the foot of my mother's bed. Blood and other fluids streamed down on me, gargling my cries for help. They stared, wishing me dead, disappointed that the fall did not break my frail
spine. Uncoordinated hands clutched at the only warmth around, the umbilical, soft unused nails digging in, trying to seize some connection -- some vestige of human affection.
A few moments later my lungs were filling with the water that should have washed the residues of birth from me, as the midwife attempted to remove me from
existence, before the abomination that was I, could blight the world with my taint. My father, or more aptly, the man that claimed me as his daughter, despite all, ripped the life from the woman,
in order to save me.
Such was the start of my being.
Two lives sacrificed, so that one could begin.
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