My stomach felt like a balloon under my fingers. The cold gel pinned my thoughts onto the effort of not peeing. “The fetus sack is visualised”, the operator announced to no one in particular, startling me out of my penance. I looked up at him, then at the screen he was facing. The patches of grey kept moving, like clouds on a breezy day. A dot stood out. A tiny dot that seemed to throb. Both of us stared at it, though only one did with any knowledge.

I knew it was mine. I had made it, maybe the first time I ever made something of any remote value. I felt dirty, my secret out there on the screen, being announced plainly into vacant air. “Cardio activity not yet visualised”. Great, heartless. Makes sense, I thought.

Maybe I was supposed to feel more than the blinding hatred. A possessiveness, maybe some reconsideration. It was another human being, living within me. I imagined throwing the screen to the unmarked white tiles and watching the dot shatter into bubbling black clouds. But that of wouldn’t stop it eating me away from the inside.

I walked out with the reports. Prints to show the world. I took it to the doctor, wondering if she would partake in my emotions. She wrote down bills upon bills. To her, it was a source of joy. I thought of the little money I had saved up. For a rainy day, I used to say. This baby was already more than I could afford.

God must be particularly stupid if he thought I would even consider bringing the child into this world. Into the arms of an uncaring parent, who has to battle with herself to keep alive. But I never considered killing anyone other than myself. It just never seemed beneficial.

As I lay in my bed, clutching random folds of my t-shirt, the warmth swept between my legs, filling the expectant cotton. At 22, I became a murderer.