Dr. Hoches was a sweet man, but most of what we covered involved me explaining how I felt towards myself after going through with an abortion, and doing the procedure on other women. It was a useless visit in my eyes, but Jo’ and Hoches were in agreement upon my feeling guilty. I don’t feel guilty about what I do and have done, nor will I start to. We were born with the ability to choose, and with that deal with the consequences of our decisions. Are the recent events my consequences?

Home once again, I lay my head back against the headboard. There is no real logical understanding of what it happening to me. I feel that it is supernatural…that a message is being sent to me. Wouldn’t that make me crazy? It’s getting hard to tell these days as to if I’m losing my mind or not. Losing track of reality is one of the symptoms members of my family first develop with schizophrenia.

With a glance at the clock, I realize it has gotten late, and another glance towards my laptop to realize I have gotten little work done. I’ve been working on a few projects to help keep me up. Falling asleep isn’t an option now that I am afraid of what will happen once I close my eyes, but it’s only a matter of time before they do. Today was a long one, and I am mentally and emotionally drained. As soft serene music play from my phone, I begin to relax and meditate.

Suddenly the music stops playing, and a frost permeates the air. An eerie calm slides its way through the atmosphere as if a snake. The screen of my computer suddenly turns black leaving me in darkness with the dull shine of the moon creeping through the curtains. Thump thump thump. That sound is back. Thump thump thump. Slowly my legs begin to move from under the covers and plant themselves on the hardwood floor. My fearful gazes scan the room for the inevitable.

Pitter patter of what sounds like feet scurry across the floor. Why? Frantically I search for the owner of that whisper. Why? Again I hear its childlike whisper. Frozen with fear, my limbs seem to have stopped functioning. “Who’s there?” I ask. Tears begin to cascade down my face in the suspension of a reply, but none came. Thump thump thump. It’s coming from underneath the bed.

Why? Why did you not want us? This time the voice is louder and clearer. Staring out into the darkness of the room, I start to see small rotten hands place themselves upon the bed.

“Did not want who? What do you want from me?!”

No answer, but the bodies and faces of rotted infant corpses invade my room. Bugs spill out of their very guts as they stare at me with intent. Talons rip the fabric on the mattress as they pull themselves up. You killed us! Why?!

“I had to!” I answer. “It was what they wanted. It was what some had needed.”

No!! You’ve denied us our rights to be born. You’ve killed so many of us. We were alive.

“You were not born or of consciousness yet!”

We were! You could have made the right choice, but you denied us. We were innocent.

“The decisions made were the best for the mother, and for you. Many of your mothers wouldn’t have been able to care for you or protect you.”

And what of your choice mother?!

“I had to…”

Tell us the truth! Why?!

The words were there and on the tip of my tongue. Questioning my sanity and shaking with fear I begin to move backwards towards the bedroom door. Closer they moved towards me and crouching as if prepared to strike.

Why! Why! Why! Why! Their wails began to intensify with every step took to the door.

Hand now on the porcelain door knob, I twist it. It is only then when they lunge and attack me. Sharp talons dig into my flesh; crimson blood flows from the wounds, and pours onto the floor. My screams are swallowed by the sounds of the horrid monsters feasting up my flesh. Their constant cries of why, and the pain forces the truth from my lips.

“I did not want a child!”


It is a nice day out. The warm rays of the sun beat down on swaying trees from the cool summer breeze, and yet all I can do is look at it from afar. Staring out the only window of a cushioned room adorned with only a toilet, bed, and sink I sit and wonder why it has come to this. Fashioned as one with schizophrenia, I am a harm to others as well as myself; however, I know I am not crazy. Locking me in a room as white as a snowy day without any interaction doesn’t keep them away. They still come for me every night.

The doctors, my friend, and coworkers see what happened as self-harm. They believe I purposely took a knife and attacked myself because I was ridden with the guilt of choosing to abort my own child. They are wrong. It’s the only way they can rationalize what I simply told them as the truth. Even sitting in a room with a straight jacket on, I still manage to bleed every night, and they still do not believe me. Do you believe me? I still remember that night of their first attack. Sharp talons tore through my flesh like razor blades, teeth like daggers shredding, blood pouring from every wound all while they cry and scream at me for their injustice.

How can one inflict such bite wounds to their self? It is not possible, yet I am told that I was alone on my bedroom floor with a knife by my side unconscious. Priests have visited me and deemed me possessed. No one believes me when I speak of them. The babies. The dead infants that come to torment and tear away at me every single night; I scream no longer. I let them unleash their fury.

In the end I must admit. I do feel guilty every single day for the choices I’ve made for myself and the other women. I had the choice. I had lied in the very beginning to myself and others, but what was done is done. It is something that I have learned to accept. Just as I now accept the fate that led me down the path I am now. Will you believe me if I told you that I am in the same room my mother died in? The woman who threw me away and left me for dead was committed to Woodridge Asylum and died from the very wounds I now suffer from?


Previously: The Unborn: Part 4 by Grim Angel