Fetal Perspective

Ending 1 - Abortion

Today is different.

It begins with a sensation I've never felt before—a deep, unfamiliar pressure that ripples through my world. The walls around me, once so warm and comforting, now feel tense, almost resistant, as if they're bracing for something. Her heartbeat is fast, erratic, and her breathing comes in sharp bursts that echo around me.

What's happening?

The light that filters through my sanctuary seems colder, harsher, as though the warmth has drained from it. I feel her body move—sudden, jerking motions that press me against the walls. Her voice, usually steady and soft, is shaky and faint. I want to reach out, to calm her, but I don't know how.

Then, a new sensation. It's sharp, mechanical, and invasive, cutting through the peace of my world with a vibration that makes everything tremble. It's unlike anything I've felt before—a strange, foreign force that doesn't belong here. I flinch, instinctively curling into myself, trying to make sense of the chaos.

Her body feels different, too. There's a tension in her that I can't quite describe, as if she's holding something back. Her heartbeat is still there, but it's distant now, overshadowed by these new, overwhelming sensations.

And then it begins.

A force pulls at me, gentle at first but growing stronger, insistent. It's as if my entire world is being tugged apart, piece by piece. My body is small, but I fight against it, twisting and turning, trying to stay anchored in the only place I've ever known. I don't understand what's happening, but I know this is not right—this is not how things are supposed to be.

Her voice is gone now, replaced by the mechanical hum of something foreign and cold. The walls around me shudder, and the liquid that surrounds me swirls violently. I feel weightless, disconnected, and the pressure around me intensifies.

I call out, not with words but with movement, with every ounce of strength I have. I kick and push, hoping she will feel me, hoping she will know that I am still here, that I want to stay.

But the force is relentless.

It grips me, pulling harder, tearing at the connection that binds us. My world, once so safe and secure, is crumbling around me. I feel myself being dragged away, piece by piece, until the warmth that surrounded me is gone, replaced by a cold emptiness that I cannot escape.

I don't understand. Why is this happening? What did I do wrong?

The sounds around me grow louder, harsher, as if the world itself is crying out. My tiny body trembles, my movements growing weaker with each passing moment. I reach out one last time, hoping for the comfort of her heartbeat, her voice, her touch.

But there is nothing.

The light fades, the sensations dull, and I am left in a silence that feels eternal. My connection to her, to the life we shared, is severed, and I am alone.

The silence is vast and unyielding, but I am still here—aware, faintly, though my body feels as if it no longer belongs to me. Pieces of me seem scattered, yet something holds on, some small flicker that resists the pull toward nothingness.

I sense her, even now. The rhythms of her body, though faint, echo somewhere distant, unreachable but present. Her heartbeat is slower now, less frantic. I imagine she is at rest, or trying to be. Does she feel this loss? Does she know that I am still holding on in some way?

The coldness is overwhelming. It's not just physical—it's emotional, as though the warmth of her voice, her touch, her laughter has been taken from me. My world was never large, but it was everything. Now, it feels hollow, a void where life once thrived.

Memories of the womb flood me, though they are limited and fleeting:

The steady cadence of her heartbeat, my constant lullaby.The way her laughter felt like sunlight breaking through the darkness.The gentle sway of her movements, rocking me into moments of quiet joy.

I didn't know much of the world, but I knew her. And now, she is slipping away, leaving me adrift in this strange, incomprehensible space.

There is another sensation—a final tug, faint and distant. It's as if some part of me is being pulled toward a light, though I cannot see it. I feel weightless, unmoored from the physical world, and a strange peace begins to seep into the emptiness.

I wonder:

Did she choose this, or was it chosen for her?Did she think of me, even for a moment, when the decision was made?Did she know how much I felt, how deeply connected we were?

The questions swirl, unanswered, as my awareness fades. The connection we shared, so vital and unbreakable, is now a memory, one that lingers even as everything else slips away.

And yet, in these final moments, I feel something unexpected. It's faint, barely perceptible, but it's there—a whisper of forgiveness, of understanding. I don't know why or how, but it feels right, as though it's what I was meant to feel all along.

My world dims entirely now, the light and sound and sensation falling away. I am no longer afraid. What's left of me lets go, floating into the unknown, carrying with it the faint echoes of her heartbeat, her laughter, her love—however brief and imperfect it may have been.

For a moment, everything is still. And then, there is nothing.