Not the girl who sleeps peacefully, with the ridge of her spine curved, and the trembling shadow of her tiny heart beating so quickly. She does not scratch nor tear, she is content, though a small frown my pass across her face as the rhythmic thud of the boat's propeller beats through her sleep.
There is already a name for her. There is already a name for all of them, all of them have a paper label, fastened to their lids, where their future names are written in faded, forgotten pencil. Forgotten, because their names are written in the handwriting of the dead. The dead have named these unborn children, the dead and the gone.
The children that scratch and tear at themselves, they only have numbers for their names. Numbers, for the dead have no time to talk and natter and make up names for the living. Let the living name the living, let the Orphanage name them, if they so wish. These unborn that tear at their skin, with their arms like wriggling maggots, and heads infested with tumours and hatred, these unborn with their blind and unseeing eyes, they have no need for names.
The unborn child known only as Nought Thirty-seven, what use will he have in a name, he, with a mind as pure and as perfect as his? Four Fourty-nine, a boy whose lungs are damaged and lumped with cancers, who arms are scarred and torn by his own fingernails, whose mind is clearly pure, and perfect, why would he need a name? Why would Five Twelve, why would Two eleven? Why would Three eighty-eight? He is a boy, Three eighty-eight, and his legs are already curled and crippled, his brain already overgrown, seething with nerves. These nameless children, writhing in their jars, they will all come to hate and torture the girl who sleeps so peacefully, the girl who sleeps with the love of the dead in her delicate heart.
Because she will not be known as a number. So strange of the dead to name someone, and strange that they should choose name this creature, this girl who is destined for nothing but hatred, who will not survive, whose little nerves will come to burn with time. She will cry, and she will scream, and nothing will come of it, no-one will help her, even as the others tear apart her primal mind. They will take from her everything, everything but that which the dead have given her, for be it through the dead's madness or be it through their love, they have given her a name, sketched it on her label in their spidering handwriting. Pale and trembling and barely alive, lodged between the scratching, seething jars of unborn, floats a little girl whose name will be Willow. Willow Rain.