She stood there, shivering slightly in the artificial chill. Somewhere inside of her, something moved. No, twitched. It was a spasmodic movement, jerky, sudden, catching her off her guard.

She sucked in a deep breath of superchilled air through clenched teeth, hoping to cleanse out some of the filth clinging heavily on every fibre of her body in the air, and let it out in measured warm puffs. Rubbed her stiff, cold fingers together, listening to the comforting chafe of the calloused palms.

Yes, she felt better. Now for the dreaded procedure, it wasn't murder, it wasn't. She would never be so cruel or insane to kill anyone, not even her own child. Especially her own child.

But you are, the incessant nagging came. You are, right now, this instant, and this child will be killed, aborted, murdered, squashed, annihilated, mutiLATED--NO!

Sobbing in half-gasps, clutching her waist and bending over, she nearly retched in pity, in self-pity, in remorse, in shame. In guilt.

Soft knocks ensued from the locked cubicle door, coming from the pasty faced nurses who simply can't wait to get their maroon hands stained a little further with fresh sacrilege blood.

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She stepped into the dimly lit room, flushed in pale, feeble moonlight, falling on the writhing creature embedded in cotton and toys.

Her lip curled back in an unmistakeable snarl of revulsion as she stepped forward into the room, closer to the infant in the crib, who had begun to cry. Her hands massaged her thighs as she advanced, as though they were covered in something unspeakably vile. One hand stopped rubbing long enough to venture to her face, and she pushed away a stray curl, letting the moonlight illuminate her worn, lined face.

In the crib, the pint sized monstrosity continued to wail, to clench its hands and flail its legs, to reassert its presence and demand for attention. She bent over the nearly blue infant, picked up the pillow next to its thrashing head and froze there, contemplating.

She turned the fluffy white packet of wool and deliberated. Turned it over, white. Turned it over again, Mickey Mouse dancing a ceaselessly merry samba with Minnie Mouse. White. Mouse. White. Rodent. White. Vermin. White. Kill, kill, KILL.

Her back stiffened as she raised the harmless weapon over the screaming, apoplectic infant, as though attempting to anoint it with blessings.

She closed her eyes, allowing darkness to envelop her murky blue irises, and swung the pillow down.

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do give me comments on how this piece is! it's my first foray into prose... and do let me know what u think the girl will do - to smother, or not? :)