Urge

Everyday, as I woke from my limited slumber, I always thought about the day of my hatching.

I felt like I was already in the water, awaiting prey and snapping my jaw shut on them. I felt the strength of my ancestors, but not their freedom. I felt the urge to break open my shell that protected me from the outside world and hear my brothers and sisters calling out for their mother, who will take them on a ride in her mouth to the fresh waters where we may finally stretch our limbs.

But those were the times when peace wasn't achieved, and our brains were not developed.

My tiny maw crashed through the egg's thin surface, the shards landing on the floor along with my small body.

But I did not come to witness the majestic sight of a predatory lizard being chased away by birds, or the vision of my mother digging in the ground to find more of my unhatched siblings.

My mother sat there, but there were no other crocodiles erupting from their prison. Mother's face was also not what I had expected. I envisioned her having an emotionless but warm pair of eyes, and a strong but calm set of teeth. Instead, Mother lay there with a disappointed look on her face. Her eyes showed emotion, but they were cold. Her fangs were weak, but it looked like they imprisoned decades of pent up rage, anguish and terror.

I regretted hatching from my warm shell, and into a cold and hostile world.

WIP