Born to Be Harvested The Unborn's Revenge

Mom's health was never good. Carrying me put her through hell.

When the doctors said I wouldn't make it, she insisted on keeping me anyway.

Hormone injections, nutrient IVs—every single day. After each round, I'd squirm inside her, my tiny body aching all over.

Mom would endure the pain in her belly just to comfort me.

"Be good, little one. You have to grow up strong and healthy."

Her morning sickness was brutal. She'd eat, throw up, eat again—all so I could be healthy.

To spare her even a little discomfort, I held still no matter how much I hurt.

Until the day Mom asked the doctor:

"Is there any way to deliver the baby sooner? Her sister is waiting for her cord blood and bone marrow. It's life or death."

So that was it. What Mom loved wasn't me—it was my cord blood and bone marrow.

If my only purpose was to be my sister's living organ bank, I'd rather start over. Find a new life. Be reborn.

...

The moment Mom asked whether they could cut me out right now, I threw the biggest fit of my existence.

Gone was the quiet baby who'd been growing obediently inside her. For the first time in a long while, Mom felt the full force of what I could do.

She lay on the bed, pale and weak. Dad sat beside her, his voice full of concern.

"She's always been so still, never given you any trouble. What's gotten into her?"

Mom gritted her teeth.

"She's nothing but a curse. If it weren't for Gemma, I never would've kept her."

"Gemma was so easy. I didn't suffer at all when I had her."

The moment she mentioned my sister, Mom's voice softened into something warm—proud, tender, full of love.

But I was good too.

Mom's body was fragile, and just existing inside her made me uncomfortable. Every part of me ached, all the time. But I stayed still. I grew quietly. I never complained.

Mom questioned Dad in detail about my sister—how she was eating, how she was sleeping, every little thing.

Dad answered each question carefully.

Neither of them seemed to remember I was still here, curled up inside her.

I listened in silence and made myself a promise: if Mom said she loved me—just once—I'd stay. I'd keep being her child, even knowing my birth was nothing but a calculated move.

Because the suffering she'd endured for me was real. That part wasn't fake.

I waited. And waited. And finally, Mom mentioned me.

Her voice lit up with excitement.

"The doctor said this one's liver, kidneys, and heart are all developing beautifully. All that suffering was worth it. Even if Gemma's kidneys fail someday, there'll be organs ready for her."

I felt the air leave my lungs.

I wanted to cry.

At only six months old, I understood a truth no child should ever have to face.

My mother didn't love me. Not even a little.

I wanted to tell her—I'd waited eighty years in line just to be reborn. Eighty years of waiting for the chance to become her daughter.

I wanted to tell her that I'd been in pain every single day, that my body never stopped hurting, but I forced myself to absorb every drop of nutrition, forced myself to grow—all so I could be born. All so I could meet her.

But my luck had never been good.

The nurse came in with another injection.

This one went straight into Mom's belly. Every time I saw that needle piercing through, fear shot through me. Every instinct screamed at me to fight it. But for Mom's sake, I'd always held still.

Not this time.

This time, I didn't want to hold still anymore.

Because I didn't want to be her child anymore.

I kicked her belly as hard as I could. Mom yelped, crying out in pain.

The nurse stared at the bulging skin, needle hovering, unsure what to do.

"Just do it," Mom snapped. "I refuse to believe I can't handle this little parasite."

"What are you standing there for? If this baby doesn't make it out alive, you can kiss your career goodbye!"

No matter how hard I punched and kicked at the walls of my world, they found their opening and drove the needle in.

The medication hit my bloodstream. My limbs grew heavy. My eyelids dragged shut.

Mom was drenched in sweat, gasping, cursing through the pain.