Junkyard

3/10/2020

I was conceived on March 27 to Lisha Justine, my mother and carrier.

I don't like my mother very much.

The doctor told me I was merely an "accidental product" to a "night of pleasure" and that she hasn't been very pleased with my growth in her body. Of course, the doctor could not speak to me in the verbal sense. No, he communicated to me through a series of electromagnetic signals that I was able to intrinsically understand. Like how any newborn creature could sense foe from friend, I could easily translate those signals the doctor sent through the walls of my mother's womb.

Naturally, it wasn't easy for me to trust the doctor. The womb was a comfortable shelter, I was fed well, and I didn't suffer any abnormalities. But through his messages, the doctor presented me with external images of my mother. How she looks, what she does every day, how she speaks and ultimately, what she speaks about to the doctor.

"Please doctor! My parents can't know about this, this mistake. And I can't possibly take care of a baby at this point in my life. I can pay $500 upfront and when it's done, when I can work normally again, I swear to you, I will give you the remaining fee."

A young, fairly beautiful two-legged creature was sat in front of the doctor. (Young and fairly beautiful by the doctor's words). I supposed that is how a human would turn out. Long, proportioned, bigger than this blob that I am. Would I eventually have her golden hair, her high cheeks, that pair of blue orbs and pale skin? Would I grow to have those furrows above her brow, those unconscious habits like finger rubbing and hand carding through the hair? Would I even have those human features, whole and all my own?

"Abortion is illegal in this state, I hope you understand this, Miss Justine. I am a doctor and I want to help you, but I need the funds to do so. My work isn't exactly allowed, as you can see." The doctor's voice reverberated methodically.

The woman looked extremely distressed at his reply. I remembered at that time there was a strong negative feeling around me, as if the weight of my mother's flesh was pressing down on me. If the doctor had not showed me the cause, I would have tried to soothe my mother. It was an instinctual need. To make my carrier feel better in however way possible, even without reachable hands or feet. Neither could I shape my mouth nor open my eyelids!

The doctor sighed then continued slowly, "However since the clinic does not have any urgent appointments in the coming months, I can book you in." A diary was opened at the edge of the doctor's vision and he scribbled down some notes as my mother frantically nodded in relief. "Come in next Monday at 5pm. Make sure that you don't eat or drink at least six hours before that time. I'll see you then, Miss Justine."

"Oh, oh! Thank you, doctor!" My mother stood up in a quick flash. For a moment, she didn't seem to be sure with what to do about her hands, just twisting them around a black square thing (a handbag, the doctor provided). The doctor stuck out a hand and she immediately surged forward to shake it. "You don't know how much this means to me. You see, you're the only one I could find that would help at my economic level. Thank you so much!"

The doctor described my mother as an overly eager, impatient and frivolous young female. While she was mature and capable of raising me, she would not be emotionally prepared to raise nor provide for me, and I might be passed onto another pair of hands, far away and with no memory of her. But that was all "hypothetical", as the doctor says – "If you ever come to term".

When I questioned about the conditions of my conceiving, the doctor however was not very knowledgeable. To whom does my other half belong to? Where was "he" – my father? Does he know I would likely be gone next Monday? Does he care that I would be gone? The doctor couldn't answer, and he relayed that my mother was not very forthcoming about that information. All he knew was that my mother was a university student with strict, traditional parents she desperately didn't want to cross. He said that she must have gone to a "party" for her night of pleasure which resulted in my unfortunate creation.

To iterate...I don't like my mother very much. I don't even have a legitimate feeling for this by-chance male. I was merely the by-product of frivolity.

Here, the doctor had informed kindly: Just as my mother had the choice to remove me from her body, so too do I have an option.

While I understood that if I came to term, my mother would not be able to sufficiently support me, as an organism with some knowledge of its cessation, I futilely wanted to live. Perhaps if the doctor had not communicated to me and I remained an ignorant, brainless foetus – as I should still be – I would be able to let go without care or thought.

I was right to never trust the doctor. He was mad, unethical, heartless and I cursed his presence. Both because he was the only doctor available to my mother and because of his meddling with me.

Monday arrived.

Again, I shifted uncomfortably as I felt the walls around me jabbed in by an external force. I had nowhere to run, no more time to spare.

The doctor sought me out quickly and sent me a message: "What do you choose?"

At that moment, I had many words to say to my mother. "I don't like you nor the choice you resorted to make." I wanted to say I was your extremely selfish by-product who is considering taking away your life so I could live mine. I wanted to say that I would protect you as you had me, here. And when you end up giving me away, like the doctor forecasted, I would willingly go because that is your wish. Because I was conceived from half of you and birthed all by you.

Is my choice inconsequential? I wanted to ask. Will you ever regret this choice?

Ah, these questions are too complex for me.

At that moment, all I did know was that young, fairly beautiful Miss Justine was my mother.

The doctor listened as I made my decision......

I know it's been a long time, but I've been wanting to say...Your choice was entirely justifiable, mah-mah