Seven

SEVEN

‘Seven. It’s my number you know. I was born on the seventh day of the seventh month, seven years ago tomorrow. It was the number of times my mum tried to conceive a genie baby. It was the number of months she loved me before she found out I was a defect, then it was the number of times she tried to terminate me. Tomorrow it will be the number of years I’ve wished she had..’

. . .

“I’m sorry. As unfortunate as this occurrence is, seven months is too late to terminate.” A large window framed the swirl of roads to distant places. Her eyes did not flicker away. The horizon held her focus and the room suddenly became cold. A chill lay upon the woman, blanketing her like the fog of a winters morning. Eyes damp from disappointment, her gaze fell to the floor. She stood, delicately pushed her chair back into place and turning, left the room.

Seven doctors had told her the same seven answers. In the seventh month of pregnancy, babies could not be terminated. Not even if they were defects. Genetic modification in human modelling to achieve perfection was natural. Anything else was alien. Love between man and woman was a phenomenon only read in the pages of history. Two people conceiving with the help of nothing but each other, acknowledged as ancient health . Mistakes were intolerable and flaws an atrocity, shunned by society defects led lives in exile.

A setting sunburnt amber sun cast soft light over her defined features. The curves of her waist glided seamlessly to the conspicuous rounding of her abdomen. In the tepid breeze, her long dark tresses gently blew across her face becoming fixed at the crescent of her upper lip, held at ransom by a trail of drying tears. At the top of her balcony she could set eyes on the metropolitan expanse she called home, the society below eminent for its unspoiled grace and absence of imperfection.

Inevitable beyond her capabilities, the scientific fault growing inside her was now her burden to bear. She could not contemplate bringing a son into the world, no-one would see as perfect but her. Nor could she allow for him to live a life of social exile. The physical pain, she assured to herself, would end…

Toes overhanging from the top step, her hands grew rigid and knuckles white as she held on to the railing beside her. Every emotion and thought in her knew she had to make this sacrifice. The selfishness within her, kept her motionless however. This was a part of her. Oliver, was apart of her. She wanted so much to simply walk inside and sit down, knowing that when her child was born she would be enough in his life. That societies opinions and beliefs didn’t matter, that exile didn’t matter.

She could not fool herself. She could not pull the wool down over her eyes and block out the realities of the conventional world that could not accept a flaw. That demanded perfection. The love in her heart and the conscience in her mind, secured her knowledge that she was saving her baby from a painful life. Her instinct as a mother gave her the power in that moment to let go.

. . .

“Time of death” came the first voice after the sirens had silenced and the urgency of dealing with the fatal crisis had eased, “17.07”. Blue and red lights flashed, sending beams of colour omnisciently into the dark night sky. Eased up on a trolley her battered body was gently pushed into the ambulance. In the haze of people, one woman lingered at the base of the steps, clutching a pile of bloodied towels in her arms. After the trolley was securely in place the woman motioned for the attending paramedic to take the bundle within the towels. Her motion was rejected. “Just leave him. He’s a defect.”

Seven

jchanel

Muswellbrook, Australia

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Artist's Description

A futuristic realisation. This is the way we are headed with the society we live in today. We need to stand up for change and individualism, not succumb to idealism of the majority. Be proud to be different – love your flaws and differences. Unique is a beautiful thing..

Artwork Comments

  • ObsequiousGirl
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