Born to Be Harvested The Unborn's Revenge

Gemma touched our mother's belly.

"Mommy, now that you're having another baby, does that mean you won't love me anymore?"

Mother shook her head without hesitation.

"You're the only child that's truly Mommy's. The one in my belly—she's being born for you. You'll always be Mommy's treasure."

Gemma stared at me, her face etched with worry.

"But what if the baby is healthier than me? If I had a body as healthy as hers, you and Daddy wouldn't have to worry about me all the time, right?"

Father's eyes went red at how mature she was trying to be.

He gathered both Mother and Gemma into his arms, his voice thick with emotion.

"Never. Even if Mommy and Daddy have another child, you will always be the most important one."

They cried out there. I cried in here.

I refused to go along with their plan. I wanted them to come up empty-handed.

I grabbed the umbilical cord and bit down hard.

"Ah—!"

Cold sweat drenched Mother's clothes in an instant.

She had Father take Gemma out of the room, then turned on her belly and let loose.

"Are you an animal? Do you have any idea how long your sister has been waiting for you? And you're throwing a fit? What if you damage the cord blood? Everything I've suffered through will be for nothing!"

What baby wants to be born with a purpose strapped to its back? I hated Gemma. I hated Mother. I hated Father.

I grabbed the cord and spun in circles inside her.

Mother was in so much pain she couldn't even scream.

I thought for sure that after all that, I'd finally die.

But Mother's resilience was something else entirely. Even though her body grew weaker, I remained safe and sound inside her.

"She's nothing like Gemma. When I was pregnant with Gemma, everything was smooth—I barely suffered at all. But this one..."

Mother caught herself, aware that others were in the room.

I understood. She wanted to curse me out.

The difference between being loved and not being loved was painfully obvious. I was nearly seven months along, and she still hadn't given me a name.

That child, that child—that was all I ever was. Only when she was in a good mood would she call me "baby."

A knot of urgency tightened in my chest.

I was almost seven months. Mother and Father had already discussed it—at seven months, they'd cut me out.

Once that happened, life and death would no longer be mine to decide.

The doctor told Mother she was absolutely forbidden from getting out of bed. Even using the bathroom had to happen right there in the bed, or the baby might not make it.

His tone was severe.

Mother looked confused.

"I thought the fetus was healthy. How did things suddenly get this serious?"

Her emotions flared.

"I've been following every instruction. I haven't missed a single hormone injection. How can you tell me she might not survive?"

After all, I was Gemma's hope.

The doctor explained that the pregnancy had never been viable on its own—it had been sustained by medication from the start.

That only made Mother angrier. She cursed me out again.

Called me useless. Called me a waste.

But soon enough, she didn't have the bandwidth to worry about me.

Gemma had a flare-up and was rushed to the ICU.

Mother ignored the doctor's warnings and got out of bed.

Both my parents stood outside the glass doors, watching Gemma.

Mother's grief was overwhelming—so powerful it seeped into me. But all I felt was irritation.

After all, I was just an innocent baby.

I didn't want to live for Gemma's sake.

Mother couldn't bear seeing Gemma lying limp and pale on that hospital bed. She grabbed the doctor like a woman possessed.

"Can you do the C-section now? My daughter can't wait any longer!"

The doctor was stunned by the desperation of the request.

He tried to talk her down immediately.

"The baby's lungs haven't fully developed. If we deliver now, her survival rate will be extremely low."

A flicker of hesitation crossed Mother's eyes—but she shoved it aside. She didn't care about anything else anymore.

All she could see was Gemma.