Author's note: This week is my finals week in college, so the amount of updating will probably slow significantly. Also, let it be noted, I don't have access to a computer on weekends, so this story will be updated on week days for those who are following. Thank you to all who have reviewed so far, you keep me inspired and motivated to continue!

~MadMadysonn

WARNING: This chapter will contain a graphic description of a dead body after giving natural childbirth and dying. If you do not want to read it, I suggest either skipping over that section, or this chapter all together. Thank you for reading.

It was July 5th, 1987 when my mother Mirabelle Leon gave birth to me in the home I grew up in. My birth certificate says it was at 12:01 a.m. but for all I know, it could have been a few minutes earlier, on the fourth of July, America's Independence day. That's just one ironic thing about my birth, it was already foreshadowing the demise of my innocence. My father used to tell me that he never thought of my mother any more beautiful that the moment she smiled when I was in her arms, crying out after my birth. Now I could believe him, having seen the miracle, and experienced it myself, but I never did before. It was just another memory that was unable to aid me when I was a child.

For you see, on October 4th, 1995, when I was only eight, she died. My mother, Mirabelle, or Mira to my father, had elected to give natural birth in her own home once again when she became pregnant with my brother. He was early, he was supposed to be born a few weeks later than when he came. I was at school, and my father was out on business in Madrid, unable to be reached. I don't know when she died exactly, I just remember when I came home from school that day.

I was at a private school, so I was wearing a plaid skirt, with a button up white t-shirt and a school vest. Our colors were red and green, and they clashed horribly on my skirt. I remember complaining often to my mother about it, but she always just said to quiet down and accept it. If I did good in school, I would get presents on my birthday, and after getting the one thing I truly wanted, a handmade doll house, the year before, I pushed hard. The dollhouse was very dear to me, I wish I had been able to take it with me when I was sent to Genosha. I used to love running my fingertips along the mahogany roof, feeling the little details in the shingles. Each room had its own wallpaper carefully plastered on the walls. My favorite had been the light pink paisley in the living room with a fancy red love seat with painted-on gold for the trim.

I'm getting too distracted, I apologize, but you know me by now. It'll happen often. Anyways, I remember walking into the house as I have always done. I waited by the door for my mother to come down the stairs, belly and hair bouncing before giving me my daily hug and leading me into the kitchen for a snack. She usually prepared croque monsieur with a lovely homemade tomato bisque with the grape tomatoes she grew in the garden, it was the perfect snack. When I stood there for more than ten minutes, I became worried somewhat. I figured she was in the bathroom as I shed off my coat and set my backpack on the coffee table in the open living room before heading up the red oak stairs that dissected the house straight down the middle.

I was heading to my room, to grab my dollhouse, when I slipped in something red. I landed on my buttocks, then hit my head on the floor. I began to shout and cry, but soon, another cry blended with mine. It was the cry of a baby, coming from my mother's room. The door was cracked open, and I could tell the cry was emanating from behind the wood. I pushed it open and screamed at the sight before me.

My mother was on the bed, naked, splayed and covered in blood. The baby was a bit farther down the bed, but it looked to be still stuck inside of my mother and covered in blood as well. I still don't know to this day how my mother managed to clear the baby's throat and nose without birthing him fully, and I know I never will. I took one look between my mother and the new baby before promptly emptying my stomach on the floor. Dad was supposed to come home today, today was supposed to be a good day. I remember telling myself that as I removed the baby out of my mother.

I cleaned him up best I could, but I couldn't move him far, the cord was still attached. I didn't know what to do with him. I just sat on the bed for what seemed like years, holding the child to me, spacing out as he cried and cried. I cried too. The tears burned, and some days I can still feel their burn on my cheek. I knew it was a boy, I could tell he didn't have baby parts, so I named him after the guy I had a crush on. Claude. My dad walked in only an hour after I had gotten home to see me, covered in blood from my mother and Claude, and clutching the baby to my chest.

It was decided I was his mother from that day. A responsibility I did live up to thankfully, for my father was of no help. Nannies, au pairs, they all did fine, but they weren't me. That was the way that baby Claude seemed to see it. He cried when I went to school, all day. He only slept in my arms. It was strange, but I heard the nannies whispers. They whispered of how an eight year could come to accept this child, who had killed my mother with its birth, so easily as if he was my own. In my mind, he was.