Born to Be Harvested The Unborn's Revenge

"Whether this baby lives or dies is none of your concern. Even if it dies, I won't hold you doctors responsible. All I want is for my daughter to be safe!"

"That is the only reason it exists!"

She jabbed a finger hard into her belly, as if driving the point home.

Dad wrapped his arms around her, stopping her from hurting herself.

How beautiful. What magnificent maternal love.

If only it weren't built on sacrificing me.

My resolve hardened. I absolutely could not be born.

Better to hurry back to the reincarnation queue—maybe I'd land a decent family next time.

Under the combined persuasion of the doctors and Dad, Mom abandoned the idea of an immediate C-section.

But her nerves were wound impossibly tight. Every hour on the hour, she checked the fetal heart monitor, making sure the readings stayed within normal range.

This slowed my dying considerably.

The moment I tried to loop the umbilical cord around my own neck, the machines beside her screamed their warnings.

"Heart rate dropping—fetal distress—prep for emergency surgery."

I panicked and let go of the cord immediately.

Fine. New strategy. If the mother's body weakened enough, the baby wouldn't survive either.

So I wore her down. I refused to sleep during the day. At night, I spun and danced inside her womb like my life depended on it—or rather, like my death depended on it.

Every single time I felt certain I was done for, Mom would have the doctors administer another injection.

The needles were enormous. She never so much as blinked.

The drugs dragged me back from the edge of death, again and again.

Sometimes, she'd look at me the way she looked at Gemma—soft, almost tender. But she'd catch herself every time.

"So what if it's just hormones? I still love Gemma more. Gemma is my real child."

Between the monitors and the medications and the sheer force of modern medicine, I stayed stubbornly, infuriatingly alive inside her.

As the seven-month mark crept closer, the smiles on Mom's face grew more frequent.

One afternoon, Mom's younger sister came to visit—my aunt, Rosalie Harlow.

Mom took Rosalie's hand and pressed it against her belly.

Mom was frighteningly thin. She said I'd drained all her vitality, sucked her dry. I resented the accusation. I was still tiny.

I watched the large hand resting on the stretched skin of her stomach. Slowly, I pressed my small palm against it from the inside.

Rosalie felt it instantly. Her face lit up.

"She's holding my hand! Look—do you think she likes me?"

Mom regarded her with a flat, expressionless stare.

Rosalie hesitated, then ventured carefully:

"This doesn't feel right. Gemma is wonderful, but... is it really necessary to sacrifice another child to save her?"

She loved Gemma too—of course she did. But the baby inside that belly also shared her blood. The thought of what awaited me—countless bone marrow extractions, possibly even organ harvesting for Gemma—made her chest tighten until she could barely breathe.

Was this truly the right thing to do?

The warmth drained from Mom's eyes in an instant.

"I'm the one who gave her life. Whatever I decide to do with her, she has no choice but to comply."

"If it weren't for her sister, she wouldn't even have the chance to be born. She should be grateful."

Rosalie stared at her sister as though looking at a stranger.

Mom's voice dropped to something quiet, almost gentle.

"She can only blame her bad luck. For Gemma's sake, everything is worth it."

Mom kneaded the ache in her lower back, one hand resting absently on her belly. Something flickered across her face—a shadow of something low and unreadable.

I didn't believe in fate.

My life was mine to decide.

Mom was diligent about following the doctors' orders. She never left the bed. The slightest twinge of discomfort and she called for help immediately.

All I could do was wait—anxiously, desperately—for the one perfect moment to end this.

Even then, some small thread of mercy lingered in me. I didn't want to damage her body too badly.

The day I hit exactly seven months, Mom couldn't wait a second longer. She told the doctors to prepare for the C-section.

The day before surgery, she got out of bed.

She wasn't careful anymore.

She took Gemma and Dad downstairs for a walk.

"Once this baby is born tomorrow, my Gemma won't have to suffer anymore."

Mother's voice brimmed with anticipation.

"That's the whole reason this child exists."

Father said nothing to contradict her.

Gemma asked what my name would be.

Mother answered carelessly.

"Mira, I suppose."

A damaged gem needs a patch—nothing more. Naturally, the patch didn't matter much.

Tears fell, heavy and fat.

It wasn't that I had no way to die. It was that every method would have devastated Mother's body.

I had to admit it: some stubborn part of me still hoped.

I loved her.

I'd loved her from the moment I began to exist inside her.

But she didn't love me.

Then I didn't need her either.

I looked at the placenta. I reached out and tore it away with everything I had.