Project Hybrid

Version 3 | Chapter 8: Parturient

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ILY

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BIRTH was hard.

A month trapped in darkness and gook took a toll on me, causing me to kick what little legs I had then. As much as possible, I tried to say, "Let me out" to the vessel that entrapped me. For the most part, I failed—instead, the sounds outside ignored me. 

For the first time, I felt something pushing against me—something cold. Very, very cold. Following the pressure that grew towards me, shoving into my lips, I also heard a voice: "Wow! You're around forty weeks by the look of it." It didn't sound like the familiar voice of the woman who would give birth to me. It seemed a bit Meditteranean.  

"Forty weeks." The vessel tightened as the voice belonging to familiarity and remorse let out what sounded like a gasp. "That explains why I can feel them kicking, and their thought train has been 'let me out' for the past few days." Right then, I wanted to stretch my legs out and kick. She spoke of it as a joke. 

The pressure then went to my thighs.

At least my lungs had a tint of space to breathe. 

"Now, let's see the gender of this child," the Meditteranean voice said. A few moments of silence went by, and I could feel the vessel tensing.

Somewhere away from the vessel, I could sense someone's joy mixed with something else. Something about them called to me. It was calm and welcoming, making the entrapment feel a little brighter when I closed my eyes. 

Yesyesyesyes. Yes!

Such words belonged to the one filled with joy. 

"Congratulations," the Mediterranean voice went on, closer than the thoughts of the one with the joyful aura. "You're having a boy." 

The pressure faded away from me for a moment. The dignified voice belonging to a Latino background bursted with joy. This same soul started the debate over what they would call me: Ily, an acronym for the phrase, "I love you." 

After a while, three of the four voices discussed my heartbeat. As the familiar voice said, "I can't get attached," I understood that Zoelle, as I'd heard people call the familiar voice, couldn't love me for some reason. "He's not my son." The confines of the vessel tightened. 

With no interest in listening to Zoelle anymore, I closed my eyes and searched for the person with a joyful aura. Slowly, I felt myself sinking, and the only constant inside the vessel was this cord that connected with my stomach, providing me food. 

Outside, the constant was the joyful soul. The respected Latino voice called her "Triz." It sounded like the words "tree" and "fleece" merged. Her thoughts seemed focused on me: I'm here, too. Silence coursed through the area again. 

I wanted to call out to Triz and say, "Where are you?" Meanwhile, I could hear her heartbeat, and it called my name: Ily. Ily. Ily. 

And you're perfect, Ily. 

At this moment, I knew for sure that Triz was the soul who loved me. Next thing that I knew, a surge of panic swelled outside the vessel. 

"Are you okay?" the respected Latino voice asked. It sounded like he loved me, but something were beyond my control as my brain went haywire. Time seemed to speed up. 

Get out—

Push—

Flashes of red swirled against my eyes.