We should thank the heavens that we don't remember being born. It's really traumatic being squeezed through a tiny hole that was much too small, not being able to breathe, and then assaulted by your senses. Everything was too loud, too bright, too hot, too cold - it was just too much to handle.

At the time I didn't quite realize what had happened. All I could think about was the pain and the confusion and fear that filled every part of me. Where was I? What had happened? Panic filled me as everything I realized I couldn't speak, nor see, nor move my body. I couldn't do anything and it terrified me. So I did the one thing I could do. I cried.

I screamed as I felt my body moving. I bawled as cold thing touched me and screeched as I felt something unfamiliar wrap around me.

I continued, and at some point I became unable to stop crying. It was the only way for me to deal with my mess of emotions, and the more I cried, the more I panicked, the less I became able to think straight. I wanted to scream, to rage at the sky, to curse the heavens, or just scream incoherently - which was not that different from what I was doing to be honest. I wanted to tear out my hair, punch the wall, stomp on the ground. I needed to do something.

Being born is one the most traumatic experiences ever and we should thank the gods that our minds don't allow us to remember it. Unless you're reincarnated, apparently. Then the fates let you have an up and personal look at what it's like and we get to keep those memories forever.

After some time of being jostled around I was laid on something warm and comforting. I didn't know what it was, all that I knew was that it was safe. My cries turned to whimpers, and then stopped all together as my senses focused on something.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

I was familiar. I remembered that sound from as soon as I could focus. When everything was dark and strange and timeless.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

It calmed me in a way that nothing else could. I could feel my body relaxing as I continued to hear the steady beat. As I laid there, against whatever it was, listening to the steady thumps, I fell asleep.

I have no clue how long it took me to understand my situation. A few week? Months? It was impossible for me to keep track of time. I was constantly fading in and out of consciousness, and even when I was awake I couldn't see anything. It might seem strange that it took me so long to realize I was a baby, but as it turns out, babies have shit eyesight.

All I could see were dark and light blobs that would come and go, smaller light blobs that would bring really loud sounds and all sorts of smells. People would somehow pick me up and move me and my surroundings would change from one indistinguishable blobs of color to another.

At first, I thought I had been kidnapped and/or drugged. The drugs would explain why I couldn't see anything or comprehend anything despite hearing what was clearly english, and the kidnapping would explain why I didn't recognize anyone's voices. I didn't live in the best of areas, but it could've been worse. There were occasional murders, usually crimes of passion, and any kidnapping that usually happened was not really kidnapping but divorcing parents begin petty and cruel to each other.

I cannot describe how horrified I was, that despite how terrible I felt, once I got to wherever I was going, it was going to be worse. I wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all. I had never been a perfect person, yes I lied a bit and such, but I never did anything to deserve this. I screamed and cried, hoping these kidnappers would just kill me. I'd read about things that happened to people who'd been kidnapped: forced into the sex trade, sold as slaves, used as spare parts, organs sold on black market. To me, I thought death would be better than what my options were. So I screamed and wailed. I made an annoyance of myself, hoping my captors would become fed up with me and shoot me.

My thoughts kept turning, kept pushing me further into despair. The more I thought the more hopeless I thought it was. I told myself to stop thinking about it, I knew obsessing would do nothing to help me, but I just couldn't stop. There was nothing to distract me from my thoughts, and I couldn't do anything except cry. So I did. A lot.

I cried in hopes that my captors would get tired of me and put me out of my misery, or shove more of whatever they drugged me with into my system. Then I probably wouldn't even be able to think.

It was same thing everyday. Wake up, scream, see a bunch of blobs, scream some more, then sleep. Except one day it was different. I woke up to a baby's cry. A baby's cry is something unique; there's something different about it that makes it easy to tell the difference between a normal cry and a baby's cry.

This wasn't the first time I'd heard the baby cry, as it usually chimed in soon after I started screaming. But it was, however, the first time I had been awoken by someone's cries other than my own.

I heard someone come in and start talking to the babe, but I couldn't understand what they were saying. The crying didn't stop, and it took more effort that I thought it would to not chime in and cry as well. As much as I wanted out of the situation I was in, I did have a heart. Babies require attention, and if it was crying on its own then it needed something, and I wouldn't take away from that.

I could hear someone murmuring to the baby, trying to get it to stop crying but to no avail. The infant continued to howl and it was really starting to grate on my nerves. I don't know how long I was listening to the baby, but eventually the cries grew louder. And closer. The infant was left next to me, and there was some murmuring from someone, and then they walked away, leaving the screaming baby right next to me.

Who leaves a baby next to a drugged person? I couldn't do anything! I could hear the poor thing still crying next to me, slightly softer now due to exhaustion. I didn't know what to do with the baby. I'd never really been around small kids for a reason. Listening to the poor thing sob though was breaking my heart. Babies like songs, right? You're supposed to hum a song if it can't sleep.

I turned my head to the side as much as I could, which wasn't a lot mind you, and squeaked at the babe. Yep. I squeaked. That was pretty much all I could do as I could barely move my mouth. All I could manage were the sounds 'ah' and 'oh', but I tried to sing a song anyways. The sniffling slowed as I continued my ridiculously shitty hot cross buns song, but hey, I was trying.

I sang as long as I could, and by the time I stopped, too tired to go on, the sniffling had stopped and all I could hear were quiet breaths. Success! The satisfaction I got from that small feat was amazing. My eyes started to droop and I realized how tired I was. Singing meant constant movement, and that took energy. My eyes closed and I drifted to sleep with a single question on my mind.

Who leaves a baby with someone drugged and invalid like me?

Hello! This is my first story, and sorry it's not much, I just wanted to put this up now and hopefully get some feedback :) Let me know what you think of it so far in the comments