She

She's smoking again. Bloody smoking. She told everyone she was going to stop, she promised. I understand it's addictive and it's hard to stop. It's physiological, it's not her, the body needs it. I don't. I don't need it. I hate it. Yet she doesn't think of me. The implications of her habit, the toxins I am being exposed to with every drag.

But with her it's all about the imminent, the fix, the feeling of something in between her fingers. She blows the smoke through her lips seductively, like she did as a teenager. But now her lips are cracked and dry. Her tongue has a thick film hiding the taste buds. Her nails are chewed and yellow. She has wrinkles, not expression wrinkles. They are smoking wrinkles. I am glad she's got them, she deserves them. The little scars on the face are being scratched from the inside. The heart is annoyed at how it can't get oxygen around the body as efficiently. The lungs are frustrated, as they're black and clogged. And the skin's, distressed, withered and sad at how old it appears. But she doesn't care. It's always about her. How she is feeling. I feel stressed; I'll have a fag. I'm feeling fat, smoking suppresses your hunger, it's a meal replacement. I'm bored, I'm feeling down, I'm drinking so I'll smoke. I get it. I understand. But she could at least try and give up, as I am part of her. I'm inside her. She chose to have me. I know I was an accident. But she still made a conscience decision to have sex. So did he, but I am inside her and her smoking effects me too.

I didn't want to be here. Why did that sperm have to fight its way and fertilise her and make me? Why are babies made this way? I wish babies just grew from trees or were made from seeds planted in the ground. Then all parents would want a child, and they would not be a product of a drunken evening or a failured contraceptive.

The most important aspect of the potential parents would be their mental state. That doesn't mean people with lower IQ's or the disabled couldn't have a child seed, as the criteria would be based on how compassionate they were, their ability to display unconditional love and their view of self. This would consist of a face to face interview, questionnaires and then they would be given a fake baby, after it had sprouted.

They would be assessed over a year period. If they passed they would be given a child seed to plant. Their only responsibility would be to water it and feed it. The way they nurtured it, spoke to it as it was growing would determine what type of child it would be. Some parents who like classical music would play that to the growing seed so it would sprout with a natural inclination for classical music. As the baby would have mentally stable parents, they would grow up in an environment that was safe, secure and stable. They would love their parents and their parents would love them. And they wouldn't be an accident; there would be a reason for them to be here.

I like that idea. But it doesn't change my current predicament; I am still stuck inside her. And now I am prone to obesity and diabetes due to her chain smoking. She doesn't even smoke lights, so I get the full impact of her self-indulgent habit.

Sometimes when she washes up she talks to me; I savour these moments every day. I become her best friend. She's hasn't really got many close friends since they moved.

She tells me that life is shit. That it is not easy, but it is not easy for anyone. That when she was younger she wished she had a sister. She also apologises for smoking so much, but she says she can't stop. But in moments of guilt, she promises she will cut down. She never does.

She tells me how she has had to cut out the medication since she realised I was around, so she is not sleeping very well and is feeling depressed again.

She states how she loves him but not with all of her heart. As she only married him as her first love died in a car crash. She talks about her first love a lot. How she had spent all her youth with him. How he was everything she ever wanted. But she says that He is a good father. That she can trust him, that he is loyal and loves their children. She ponders why she has always been depressed. She blames her parents for not recognising it when she was younger. She says she hopes I don't get her anxiety genes. She worries whether she will be a good parent and if she will cope at having a baby at her age.

She tells me about my brothers and sister often. Andrew is unusually tall and gangly. She says he is a typical teenager, moody and immersed in his own solitude. He does not communicate, he grunts. But when he is ill, he always calls for her. And she likes that. As she sits next to him and mops his brow. But the next day he doesn't thank her. He is 15. Claire loves animals. When she was younger everyone had to call her clairebear. She had a clairebear outfit that she wore all the time. She reads The Telegraph every Sunday with the pocket money she earns from cleaning Grandmas house. She is the clever one and wants to be a vet. She's 12. Patrick likes guns and cars. He got suspended from school recently for firing a potato gun at James Thompkinson and injuring him. She had to plead for him to be let back into the school. He is always laughing and wants to be a mechanic. He is 9. She had planned all of them, with a three-year gap.