Mommy, please kill me.

I don’t want to be born. I want to die. I dream sweet little baby dreams of dying, and how wonderful it would be. The gentle release—the sweet, sleepy promise of death—is the only thing I want out of life. You see, my brain is very small, and it’s not big enough to think about anything more than one thing at a time. And that one thing, for me, is death.

You see, Mommy, the warm soft embrace of your amniotic fluid is the only life I know, and I don’t want to know any other. Life is easy for me in your loving womb. Once I come out, life will be cold and harsh. You don’t want me to be cold, do you, Mommy? You don’t want me to cry, do you? I will cry very loudly when I’m born, because I don’t want to be born. I only want to continue the warm, half-dreaming, subconscious state of practical-death that I have enjoyed thus far in my short life in your tummy these past two months. Dying gives me that option.

From what I have been able to gather with my limited brain capacity, I will be born with many strikes against me, making life unbearably harsh for both you and me. I mean, you were on a birth control pill when I was conceived, right? You didn’t want me. And how old are you—17, 18? Come on, you’re having a hard enough time figuring out how you are going to survive, let alone struggling to give me a decent shot at life. So will you kill me already before I develop thumbs?

I’m not so sure you’ll love me very much. Maybe you’ll see the face of my daddy every time you look at me. That bastard bolted on you when you told him you were pregnant. You won’t be able to finish school, your family will not support you, and I will bear the brunt of your frustration. I don’t want to be hit. I can’t imagine what being hit must be like, and I do not want to know. I’d much rather be vacuum-sucked out now, in a gloriously instantaneous moment of life-taking glee. Then you can go about your business, and have a child when you want one.

You know, going hungry doesn’t sound too good to me. I don’t want that, Mommy. It doesn’t sound very sleepy or relaxing. It doesn’t sound too squishy either. It sounds very painful and bad. It is much better for me to be in a steamy darkness, permanently shielded from all these scary things. Death will be much more to my liking, Mommy, if you please.

Right now, the only thing I care about is a large sack of fluid. If all these bad things were happening to me, how would I stay warm? How would I be able to drift in and out of half-sleep like I do now? I don’t know if I will be able to cope with any of those things without the subconscious privileges I have now. Dying sounds a lot more reasonable, if you think about it.

Do you hate me, Mommy? Is that why you want me to be born? Of course not. I am in a ridiculously early stage of undetermined sex. Please end my short life before it has a chance to become painful and confusing. Let me continue my existence in this haven of wet, comfortable darkness.

I know you would do your best to be a good mommy. I know you have considered dropping out of school, moving in with your parents and getting a temporary job at the factory. Thank you, Mommy. But you don’t have to go through all that. All I want is to be dead.

Please, pretty please, kill me.