Eighty

SHELLY.

The cry of Petian, my baby girl jerks me into reality, apparently she is wide awake and not getting the attention of her mama, hence she takes to crying.

“Shh,” I whisper, trying to get her to be quiet.

She is a young mirror image of myself; tender and beautiful and weak. Her eyes are the colour of my pathetic lover, pale straw, large and adorable.

I never wanted a child and I still don’t, the moon has a way of distorting my wishes and shoving her will down my throat. I longed to breathe and be free and never worry about anyone or anything but myself... Selfish and I don't care.

And even though my perception about having babies that can't defend themselves and are nothing but liabilities, I’m never walking out of her life, nor my unborn and probably the next and the one after. I may not be giving her the life she deserves but certainly, I will protect her with the last fibre of my being.

Eventually, when I’m gone, what next? The question sickens me to the marrow. Just mayb