Dead Babies!

"What does that mean?" My words trailed off as I hastened my steps to catch up with Shawn. I could sense his patience wearing thin, his gaze laden with a mix of disappointment and resolve as he glanced back at me. "Come on," he sighed, his voice a blend of frustration and encouragement, "Let's find out if there's any truth to your words."

His response, though curt, sparked a flicker of hope within me. Could this be a sign of progress, however small? Side by side with Shawn, I found myself buoyed by his presence, my stride gaining a newfound purpose. It felt as though I were a pheasant, proudly parading beside its master, and I straightened my back, determined to match his stride.

Our path intersected with that of a doctor. The sudden intrusion of reality made me falter, ready to sidestep into the shadows. But Shawn, unwavering, had other plans.

As the doctor attempted to pass, Shawn acted with swift decisiveness, seizing the man by his collar. "Where's the dean's office?" His demand was both a question and a command, his grip unyielding.

I watched, captivated, as the doctor's face transitioned from shock to indignation, and then to reluctant submission. Perhaps it was Shawn's formidable presence or the unexpected strength of his grip that swayed him. The doctor's initial resistance melted away, replaced by a forced composure as he directed us onwards.

To the casual observer, Shawn might have seemed a rogue, his actions far removed from the expected demeanor of a guardian. Yet, those familiar with the stakes understood the urgency driving him.

Our quest led us to the dean's office, silent and foreboding. Without hesitation, Shawn took out his ID, his boot sending the door swinging open. The dean, caught mid-rebuke, quickly masked his ire with a veneer of cordiality.

Armed with our authority, we swiftly uncovered the grim reality faced by the hospital. Every day, it became the final resting place for countless unborn souls, lost to circumstances both tragic and deliberate due to abortion. The director, "Michael," shared harrowing tales of lives unfulfilled, of choices made in desperation.

Amidst these revelations, my hand instinctively found my belly, searching for a connection now absent. The void where life once stirred left me adrift in a sea of mixed emotions—grief for what could have been, and a poignant longing for a presence I had yet to truly know.

As I reflect on the path not taken, the shadow of a thought I once harbored casts a long, dark veil over my heart. The mere notion that I considered ending the life burgeoning within me, now fills me with an indescribable, haunting guilt.

Shawn, with his aura of mystery and danger, seemed to command the space around him as he led the dean, an unwilling participant in today's saga, down to the basement. His presence, imposing yet somehow reassuring, felt like a scene straight out of a dark, romantic fantasy.

"Michael," as he whimsically dubbed himself, mentioned in passing that this forsaken place was once a mere abandoned storage, resurrected from its slumber by a fleeting whim of his. As my gaze wandered, I realized the grim purpose it now served—a silent keeper of lost souls, where the remnants of tiny, unfulfilled lives were to be consigned to oblivion.

Shawn, in hushed tones filled with underlying urgency, shared on our descent that the spirits of these innocents, especially those taken too soon by human hands, brimmed with a potent mix of sorrow and rage. It was this very essence, this concentrated grief, that served as a macabre nourishment for tormented spirits like Zoya. Empowered by such anguish, she could ascend to terrifying heights of power in the blink of an eye.

His words were a dire warning—if Zoya's strength surged beyond our reach, the consequences would be catastrophic, a disaster we might never recover from.

The entrance to this underground sepulcher was marked by an iron door, its surface a patchwork of peeling silver paint and the rusted red of exposed metal, betraying its battle with time. Yet, the lock gleamed with the promise of recent use, a silent testament to the basement's newfound purpose.

A stroke of dark humor crossed my mind—we must be uniquely fortunate to stumble upon this morbid revelation. Perhaps, in another life, we'd be striking gold with lottery tickets instead.

Standing at the threshold, Michael hesitated, his unfamiliarity with the key a clear sign of his detachment from this grim reality. It was a stark reminder of the dean's usual comfort and distance from such desolation. Today, however, he was to confront a reality far removed from his gilded existence.

With a laborious effort, Michael swung open the iron gateway. I remained rooted, unable to advance without Shawn's lead. Reluctantly, the dean stepped through into the darkness beyond, a figure of authority now reduced to a mere harbinger of our grim exploration.

Yet, before I could follow, a sudden movement caught my eye. The dean, overwhelmed by the stark reality that confronted him, clutched his mouth and staggered out, his body wracked with convulsions of revulsion as he sought refuge in the shadows, surrendering to his nausea.

A wave of disdain washed over me, not just for his physical weakness but for the realization of how far removed he was from the raw truths of existence. To rise to such heights, yet be so profoundly undone by the sight of death, made me ponder the twisted paths one might traverse for power and prestige.

Within the sanctity of our shared resolve, I, a medical student well-versed in the anatomy of life and death, and Shawn, a policeman seasoned by years in service, faced the morbid threshold together. Our gazes locked, a silent accord passed between us, and we stepped into the shadowed room, braced for what lay ahead.

It wasn't until the reality of our grim discovery laid bare before us that the magnitude of the situation struck me. Despite my academic familiarity with death's visage as a medicalstudent, the sight of those innocent lives, unclaimed and silent in their eternal rest, sent an involuntary shudder through my being.

In a quiet gesture of solidarity, I retrieved two medical masks from my pocket, offering one to Shawn. His eyes met mine, a flicker of gratitude amidst the storm of emotions, before quickly looking away, perhaps to conceal any hint of vulnerability.

The room harbored a sorrowful sight; rows of tiny, unfinished journeys, some merely shapes without form, others tragically complete with features that would never see the light of day. These souls, robbed of their first breath, their first cry, were relegated to this dim, forsaken place. A pang of grief welled up, blurring my vision with the weight of unshed tears.

Then, as if the sorrow of the room had conjured a chill, a cold breeze whispered past, leaving a shiver in its wake. Instinctively, my grasp found the back of Shawn's clothing, seeking solace in his proximity. His eyes, the only visible part of his face behind the mask, held a guarded intensity.

It was clear to us both; we were not alone in this macabre setting.

With a feigned air of indifference, Shawn donned his gloves and ventured deeper, his movements deliberate as he examined the small, lifeless forms in search of answers hidden within their silent testimonies. The brief, cursory inspection of a particularly somber figure was enough to confirm our fears; these were not mere victims of nature's course.

A creeping realization dawned upon us—these innocents had been subjected to horrors unfathomable, their final moments an echo of suffering beyond comprehension.

In the midst of our investigation, Shawn abruptly paused, his gaze darting to his wristwatch. Time, it seemed, had escaped us. With a swift motion, he shed his gloves, urgency painting his features. "We must leave, nightfall approaches!" His voice, a blend of command and concern, spurred us into action, leaving the shadows and their secrets behind as we raced against the encroaching darkness.