Seventeen Years Earlier.

"You're ten centimetres dilated, Diana. You may start to push as soon as you feel the urge," instructed the midwife.

Through tired, blurry eyes Diana looked over to her husband for encouragement and received a smile.

"Not long now, darling," her husband, John whispered. He gave her hand a small squeeze.

The reassurance wasn't enough. The fluttering fear in the pit of her stomach that she was so desperately fighting worsened.

"But what if she isn't perfect, what if something is wrong?" she gasped, as the wave of pain rose up again.

"Hush, my love, she'll be perfect I promise."

Diana closed her eyes, gritted her teeth and bore down on the pain that had begun to consume her.

"That's it. Breathe through it and push out from your bottom. Yes, good, keep it going," instructed the midwife.

And then the urge had gone again, albeit a momentary respite. Diana opened her eyes to the yellow artificial glow and saw the top of the midwife's head at the bottom of the bed behind the green screen.

"John, I'm scared," she said, her words rushed, as the bite of pain returned.

"Mrs Page, you must concentrate solely on the birth of your daughter and nothing else," came a smooth, formal voice from somewhere near the door.

The consultant had finally arrived in the room and went straight to the bank of monitors to the left of the bed.

"Your scans show no abnormalities, the gene testing came back clear and your joint SPR rating is 98.9. My dear, you should not concern yourself."

Even while panting, in the middle of excruciating pain, and feeling the tell-tale stinging sensation that the baby was close, she winced when the consultant reminded her of their score. Good, but not quite good enough, and that was why they were in this room, on this floor of the hospital. Had their score been higher, she'd have been in a more comfortable bed and allowed a more effective pain medication.

The SPR score was everything. Allocated at birth and re-evaluated every year, it determined the quality and longevity of a person's life, their freedoms, and their right to procreate. The score decreased throughout a person's life, and was based on criteria that the general population were not privy to. The government would regularly change the criteria when they deemed it necessary to support an optimum standard of human life. Everything came down to a simple percentage.

Diana was no longer worrying, now totally focused on pushing the pain away. She panted like an animal as she delivered the head, and after two more pushes and a sudden release, the midwife announced that the baby had arrived. Diana fell back limply against the pillow, trying to catch her breath as John wiped her brow with a damp flannel.

In line with hospital policy, the midwife shielded the baby from the parents behind the screen. Having checked the baby's airways, she wrapped it in a towel, placed it on the evaluation trolley and pushed the trolley to the waiting consultant.

"The evaluation process should take thirty minutes, Mrs Page. I will be back then to give you our findings," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. This was a process he carried out at least twice a day for many years.

As the consultant he wheeled the trolley out of the room, the baby gave its first cry. The sound echoed down the sparse corridor.

"John, our baby, that's our baby girl!" Diana began to sob as the desperate feelings of separation swamped her.

"Hush, darling. Just thirty minutes and she'll be in our arms."

Diana heard his words and knew he was trying to calm her, but she had seen the fear in his eyes; he was finding this equally hard.

The midwife said nothing and went about her business removing the messy evidence of childbirth. Her final job was to complete the BEF (Birth Evaluation Form). Conscious of time, she answered a range of questions about the birth and the mother-- times, temperatures, blood loss and maternal behaviour during birth. This information, once collated, was to be sent to the Ministry of Rating, converted into data and used to calculate Diana's SPR rating for her coming annual appraisal. With the paperwork now complete and placed in a burgundy file, the midwife stood up and approached the sink. She sanitized her hands, nodded to the silent couple and left the room.

To distract herself from staring at the clock on the wall, Diana eased herself up and asked John for her hairbrush even though her hair was still neat as John had brushed it several times throughout the birth. Maintaining high personal presentation standards was expected of a mother of her status in labour. She glanced up at the clock again. Thirty minutes had now come and gone. She continued to brush her hair, vigorously.

Ten additional minutes passed and the consultant entered the room. In silence, he went to the sink and methodically washed his hands and lower arms. Diana and John watched the excruciatingly slow process, willing him to stop and give them the answer they were desperate to hear. Using his elbows to turn off the taps, he then dried his hands using the blue paper towels. Finally, he turned to face them.

"Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Page. You have given birth to a healthy baby girl weighing seven pounds, two ounces."

John turned to Diana and hugged her too tightly, making her take a sharp breath.

"However..."

Diana's head moved from side to side, trying to look around John to see the consultant. Her world had stopped at the sound of that one word.

"As you know, we evaluate upon several criteria: centiles, ratio among other factors. I have completed the evaluation I need to inform you that the infant has an SPR rating of seventy-two."

"No," screamed Diana.

"Please, you must have made a mistake!" John pleaded.

"No mistake, I am afraid. I have checked my findings with a colleague and he has verified the results. You may have access to my report within the next twenty-four hours."

Diana's screams faded to a dull, continuous moan.

"Now, Mr Page, you have an important decision to make. May I ask what that decision is?"

John looked down at Diana as she lay in the foetal position, rocking to and fro. He swallowed hard, knowing it was up to him to make the decision. It was his responsibility, his burden to bear, and he already knew what his answer would be. He had always known. Heart breaking as it was to make such a decision, John and Diana liked their life too much. They were above ninety-five percent, they had everything they needed and were more than comfortable. They would just have to try again. No matter how much they had wanted this child, he was not going to let it reduce their standard of living. That was incomprehensible. With one small word, Diana and John could return to their lives and this child would move on to a more suitable position. With one last glance at Diana, John ignored the overwhelming sense of loss and guilt and made his decision.

"Relocate," he replied gruffly, his mouth barely able to utter the word.

"Sorry, please repeat your decision."

"Relocate," John shouted. As the weight of his decision fell upon him, his knees buckled and he collapsed onto the bed, grasping for his wife, desperate to share in his grief. Diana said nothing but continued to rock, while mewling like an injured animal.

The consultant dipped his head, acknowledging their decision. He picked up the burgundy file, left the room and walked down the spartan corridor to the midwife's office, passing her the file.

"Baby Page is to be relocated."

As the consultant turned and left the room, the midwife stifled a yawn. It was approaching the end of a busy shift and she was looking forward to getting home and taking a hot bath. She was long past being emotional in these cases; she'd seen too many of them. These days, most children scoring below ninety were being relocated. Never mind, the nice young couple would try again. They all did. With a sigh she signed and dated the bottom of the form and then she picked up the heavy official stamp, pressing it down, hard on the form. Carefully, she lifted it from the paper, taking care not to smudge the single word, stamped in royal blue ink--

FLAWED

Author note. The song linked at the top of this chapter is a debut single by a dear friend of mine. Please check it out