Marlborough, NH : 24yrs
Sell Your Baby!?! Malaki’s mom wasn’t impressed.
We were mostly kidding.
We’d recently watched a documentary about the secret markets of flesh that rule the world. We’d awoken from a trance.
Our bodies were our fun lab experiment and the work had paid off.
We weren’t stupid but caught under some spell of ignorance. We thought we were married and played house. We thought we were in love because we shared many of the same gifts and deficits. We were swept up in infatuation.
Some throwback to when sex and family was created without worries of rent, roof & car. We engaged in our most primal monkey selves for months. Ancient programming.
Reality set in the same time as morning sickness.
Indoctrinated retail slaves we had many jobs. Broke treadmill. Both of us Love addicts, no time between relationships, always ready to build nests.
There is a great balm to live with another artist and musician. But the hells are no less than any other union.
Emotionally immature we at least knew we were children ourselves. We’d played some dumb luck fuck game.
We knew what we’d have to do, for the sake of all involved.
The boyish imp that lounged across dreamtime bookcases and twinkled between the amber and steel of autumn sunrises understood it was not time yet. My old friend and I had made a deal. This, too, ancient programming.
But we pondered why, in a world where black market children were a multi-billion dollar business, abortion clinics thrived. Why was it easier to kill your child when it is the most precious thing on Earth? Why did the world make wage slaves who could barely feed ourselves, let alone our love-children? Why was it so impossible to simply have and care for our children?
The doc snaps on the gloves in the converted bedroom of an old New England home. They don’t have the facilities to use anesthesia. Or painkillers. Good old Puritan punishments still alive & well.
We need to give you this shot right after the extraction. Ironically, your body would have most likely rejected this fetus. Better to do it this way.
I’m sorry. I don’t understand?
The nurse’s flourescent smile pops in front of me – You have the rarest blood, AB-!
It doesn’t mix well with most other blood. So your body attacks the baby! She is cheerful, like she aced a pop quiz after a busy frat party night.
We also need you to sign some additional paperwork for special disposal.
What do you mean?
Because of the nature of your blood we must dispose of the material through a different facility.
I don’t understand.
It’s just a hygiene issue. We can’t dispose of the material by regular methods.
Aren’t you just throwing it away?
Look, we can’t go through with this procedure if you don’t sign. It’s just authorizing alternate disposal for our records.
I just don’t understand –
We’ve got several other procedures today. Either you sign or get off the table.
His tone was intimidating. Like Mom if I didn’t hustle my ass fast enough and a smack was coming.
They brought me several papers which described the utilization of one bio disposal company instead of the other. It described things I didn’t understand. I was too afraid to ask further. I was terrified of staying pregnant.
I initialed every page and signed documentation that swore I signed the documentation.
For months after the procedure I experienced profound soul loss.
Crushing darkness and depression.
My imp was gone.