A Baby to Write Home About

Editor’s note: This story is a direct sequel to “a girl to write home about” 

Do you hear that…?

That is the sound of my aborted child, asking for more ice cream.  He won’t get any more, of course, because what was once a multi-celled, albeit symbiotic, living being, is rushing through a Peruvian septic pipe straight to the Pacific, alongside untold gallons of human fecal matter, urine, and all the rest of this city’s garbage.

Where will this soul go?

Will it go and rest in divine glory, or is Heaven only a place for those who have breathed?

Will anyone pray for this being?

What did this pour soul do to deserve such ill fate?

Will it forgive me for what I’ve done?

How do I seek redemption?

How could this happen to a couple of drunk, horny kids, when so many deeply committed in-love couples spend years trying different positions, doctors, and medicines all in vain?

Will I ever get a chance to meet this soul, look it in the eyes, and tell it, “Sorry about the whole murder thing.  It just wasn’t a convenient situation for me to raise you in.  So your mother Connie and I, sorry Claire, no I meant Crystal, yes Crystal and I decided mutually of course, it would just be best if we went ahead and took your life before you took ours.”

You never know.  Maybe I will get that chance.  Crazier things have happened.  Shit, Kardashian is a household name; surely coming face-to-face with your unborn, aborted fetus, and apologizing for being such a wanker at the gates of Heaven itself is certainly no crazier.

Did Crystal lose 21 grams on Friday?

At what moment did the organism expire and where did it go?  Surely life cannot plain vanish out of thin air.

Or did it go to the city of abandoned children, playing on see-saws, eating Popsicles, waiting for parents that will never come for them?

Whatever you are, wherever you are, all I have to say to you is this:

I’m sorry.  I love you.  Forgive me.