The Choice

He had little fingers. Small, pink and they curled around her index finger, making her realize how big her hands were compared to his tiny ones. His eyes were sealed shut and his pink eyelids were almost translucent, under which swam dreams, colors and angels, while he readied to see sights that were only sounds and feeling for nine long months.

All of a sudden, he heard her voice. The same voice that he would hear, words that made no sense, but filled him with an uncomfortable feeling nevertheless. He didn't like it and he cringed, his skin bristling even as it formed in her body.

She was leaving. She was not waiting for him to open his eyes and look at the body that fed his, the voice that spoke to him, the mouth that sometimes sang to him, sometimes yelled, sometimes wept.

He felt an urgent need to block all feeling out suddenly, to go back to where he came from, to stop breathing, it hurt so much anyway, his little lungs bursting with the effort. He did not want to open those eyelids that were pressed shut, and he did not want to lose sight of the angels that were preparing him for this new world - he beckoned to them and asked them to take him away, this was the world he did not want to see anymore, behold anymore.

The angels agreed.

His fingers went limp around her finger. She didn't want him. And he didn't want this world, without her. She was all he knew. He knew he was granted an exception before he left with the angels.

And that every child like him did not have that same choice.