Categories > Original > Drama
The first thought that entered my mind was: is it too late to abort it? Never mind the fact that I was a strict and devout Catholic, practically a saint, raised by parents so religious it’s not even funny. Forget that I loved the father of the child I wanted dead. Screw my morals- I wanted to destroy the life of a baby that wasn’t even born yet. It’s true. But that was days ago, before I’d gotten over the initial shock. Imagine, me, a sixteen year old girl, barely a woman, getting stuck with a huge bulk in my front for nine whole months only to give birth and become a single, miserable, undergraduate- not to mention unemployed- mother. I simply could not accept that. I wanted to be a lawyer for godssakes. I wanted to be rich and powerful, marry a rich and powerful man, and THEN have kids. This wasn’t my plan at all. A baby now will slow me down. But then I thought, well maybe it won’t be so bad. He’ll marry me, right? Surely he will. Then I could be a housewife for a while then afterwards go to law school just like I planned. Yeah… I’d just be delayed by marriage. That is assuming I’m getting married. But he’ll marry me, right? He told me he loved me once. Ok fine, that was when he was drunk and was trying to get me in bed, but still. Don’t they say men would only open up if you open a bottle of beer? I had smiled proudly, smugly and quite victoriously. He’ll marry me, I’m sure of it!
But then when I went over to his house the next morning he had turned pale, told me to get out and never come back, and slammed the door on my face. The nerve of him! I could hardly believe it. Here I thought he was the stable, I-will-never-leave-you type. I was shocked. I was appalled. I was furious. But most of all, I was heartbroken. I was certain he was THE ONE for me. Too bad I wasn’t his. At that moment, I had felt so many emotions, I could hardly keep track, much less focus on one. I didn’t know if I should be mad at him for abandoning me and our child, or if I should be sad that he did. I didn’t know if I should be mad at myself for believing in fairy tales and happily-ever-afters, or sad that I ever thought they were actually real. I didn’t know if I should be disappointed, scared, or happy about the baby. I knew though, that I had wanted to kill it for ruining my life. I had hated it for making him run away, stealing my opportunities and what-could-have-beens if only I wasn’t pregnant. I missed him terribly, and I had allowed myself to blame the creature growing inside me. I missed thinking of myself in Harvard, knowing full well I cannot attend the school because without a doubt, my parents would disown me for getting myself pregnant. I missed a lot of dreams I knew would only remain just those- dreams. If-onlys went in circles around my head, what-ifs trailing after them. I had thought giving myself to him, heart, body and soul would make him love me forever, but look where it got me. I guess the rose-colored glasses had come off. Yes, I was bitter. So bitter that I had stopped eating so that the cause of all this misery would feel how hollow I felt inside. I began to eat again after it reminded me I wasn’t hollow at all. Morning sickness is the worst, I tell you. Especially with nothing to throw up.
One day, I went to the priest for confession, hoping I could Hail Mary myself out of Hell. How’d that go? Well, let’s just say Father did not take it too well when I suggested that Hail Mary bit. I walked out of the church a doomed woman. Nevertheless, I was a bored doomed woman, so I was forced to think. The silence made me do it. I had walked around the cemetery behind the tiny church, contemplating about life. In my whole sixteen years, I had been a good Catholic. It’s quite odd how I ended up confessing to premarital sex and getting myself pregnant. I wasn’t always like this. I swear, once upon a time, before the love of my life came into my world, I was a good student, daughter and Christian. I was a saint, honest. People even looked up to me. Parents praised me for being such a “lovely girl”. When anyone mentioned premarital sex, divorce or abortion, I would stand up and say I was against it and then state the many reasons why. I would click my tongue at couples who kissed in public, and hide my face when an R-rated scene came on TV. I was a good girl, the perfect girl. The annoying Mary Sue everyone loved to hate. It’s a wonder, really, how I ended up like this. I never would consider myself stupid, being the smartest girl in our high school, but now that I’m pregnant at sixteen and considering abortion, I know I am. A very stupid “good girl”. But now I learned that the title “good girl” doesn’t change the fact that when the baby comes, unwanted, you had no control over your thoughts. Abortion would be THE word of the day. It saddened me that I found that out by personal experience. It made my baby seem real somehow. Baby. Me. Inside. Growing. ALIVE. BABY. MY BABY. It sank in just like that, like how I sank into the dark, deceitful depths of desperate love. I was going to be a mother. I AM a mother, I had thought, eyes wide as saucers, entertaining that scary but wonderful thought. And then suddenly, I stopped lying. I stopped telling myself to hate him and his baby inside me, because really, I loved them both. Maybe I loved them for the wrong reasons, but I loved them all the same. Maybe I loved the baby because it was a reminder of the man I loved who loved me back, even for just one night. Maybe I loved the baby because I wanted to see him again, in the face of his child, our child. Or maybe I just loved it, period. I loved that it was mine, that I could give it life, the world if it wanted it. I felt I could give it the universe and still have stars left over. Now I know how much a mother could love her child. Its limit is boundless. Just like God’s love, the sisters said. My thoughts unwillingly turned to them. I had believed everything they told me then. I grew up with their overly reassuring voices in my head, telling me how much God loves me, and how He gave up His only son to save us all from suffering. As a child, I wondered why they made it such a big deal when it didn’t even work. People suffer everyday. It made me wonder if there really is a God, if He really loved me, and if He will love my baby, too. But still, when I was younger and a little less stupid and more than a little denser, I believed every single word that they fed me, not knowing that one day I would wake up thinking they fed me poison.
When I sat on the toilet and blood left me instead of the yellow urine I was expecting, I was sure my heart stopped beating and I died for about a minute. But then I had to come alive again and flush the toilet, the red fat globs swirling down, down, down, into the dark hole, along with the beliefs I once held so close to me. I tore off the cross I had in a chain around my neck since I was a baby and held back my blinding hot tears. I would not cry. I won’t allow it. Conflicting emotions took over me once again, but this time focused on only one. I was angry. I threw the cross on the tiled floor and stepped on it repeatedly, until I couldn’t stomp on it anymore, due to the extreme amount of blood still rushing out of me. I felt dizzy at the sight of all the red. I lost my baby. I lost MY BABY. I looked at the crucifix disdainfully, Jesus’ tiny body covered with tiny hand-carved gashes and tiny painted blood spilling out of them. Quickly, I made my decision. I stood up, wiped up the blood until all nine towels were soaked crimson, hardened my heart and wiped my tears.
“Jesus bled so you won’t have to,” a sister had said in a voice so sickly sweet, smiling one of her sister smiles.
What bullshit.
But then when I went over to his house the next morning he had turned pale, told me to get out and never come back, and slammed the door on my face. The nerve of him! I could hardly believe it. Here I thought he was the stable, I-will-never-leave-you type. I was shocked. I was appalled. I was furious. But most of all, I was heartbroken. I was certain he was THE ONE for me. Too bad I wasn’t his. At that moment, I had felt so many emotions, I could hardly keep track, much less focus on one. I didn’t know if I should be mad at him for abandoning me and our child, or if I should be sad that he did. I didn’t know if I should be mad at myself for believing in fairy tales and happily-ever-afters, or sad that I ever thought they were actually real. I didn’t know if I should be disappointed, scared, or happy about the baby. I knew though, that I had wanted to kill it for ruining my life. I had hated it for making him run away, stealing my opportunities and what-could-have-beens if only I wasn’t pregnant. I missed him terribly, and I had allowed myself to blame the creature growing inside me. I missed thinking of myself in Harvard, knowing full well I cannot attend the school because without a doubt, my parents would disown me for getting myself pregnant. I missed a lot of dreams I knew would only remain just those- dreams. If-onlys went in circles around my head, what-ifs trailing after them. I had thought giving myself to him, heart, body and soul would make him love me forever, but look where it got me. I guess the rose-colored glasses had come off. Yes, I was bitter. So bitter that I had stopped eating so that the cause of all this misery would feel how hollow I felt inside. I began to eat again after it reminded me I wasn’t hollow at all. Morning sickness is the worst, I tell you. Especially with nothing to throw up.
One day, I went to the priest for confession, hoping I could Hail Mary myself out of Hell. How’d that go? Well, let’s just say Father did not take it too well when I suggested that Hail Mary bit. I walked out of the church a doomed woman. Nevertheless, I was a bored doomed woman, so I was forced to think. The silence made me do it. I had walked around the cemetery behind the tiny church, contemplating about life. In my whole sixteen years, I had been a good Catholic. It’s quite odd how I ended up confessing to premarital sex and getting myself pregnant. I wasn’t always like this. I swear, once upon a time, before the love of my life came into my world, I was a good student, daughter and Christian. I was a saint, honest. People even looked up to me. Parents praised me for being such a “lovely girl”. When anyone mentioned premarital sex, divorce or abortion, I would stand up and say I was against it and then state the many reasons why. I would click my tongue at couples who kissed in public, and hide my face when an R-rated scene came on TV. I was a good girl, the perfect girl. The annoying Mary Sue everyone loved to hate. It’s a wonder, really, how I ended up like this. I never would consider myself stupid, being the smartest girl in our high school, but now that I’m pregnant at sixteen and considering abortion, I know I am. A very stupid “good girl”. But now I learned that the title “good girl” doesn’t change the fact that when the baby comes, unwanted, you had no control over your thoughts. Abortion would be THE word of the day. It saddened me that I found that out by personal experience. It made my baby seem real somehow. Baby. Me. Inside. Growing. ALIVE. BABY. MY BABY. It sank in just like that, like how I sank into the dark, deceitful depths of desperate love. I was going to be a mother. I AM a mother, I had thought, eyes wide as saucers, entertaining that scary but wonderful thought. And then suddenly, I stopped lying. I stopped telling myself to hate him and his baby inside me, because really, I loved them both. Maybe I loved them for the wrong reasons, but I loved them all the same. Maybe I loved the baby because it was a reminder of the man I loved who loved me back, even for just one night. Maybe I loved the baby because I wanted to see him again, in the face of his child, our child. Or maybe I just loved it, period. I loved that it was mine, that I could give it life, the world if it wanted it. I felt I could give it the universe and still have stars left over. Now I know how much a mother could love her child. Its limit is boundless. Just like God’s love, the sisters said. My thoughts unwillingly turned to them. I had believed everything they told me then. I grew up with their overly reassuring voices in my head, telling me how much God loves me, and how He gave up His only son to save us all from suffering. As a child, I wondered why they made it such a big deal when it didn’t even work. People suffer everyday. It made me wonder if there really is a God, if He really loved me, and if He will love my baby, too. But still, when I was younger and a little less stupid and more than a little denser, I believed every single word that they fed me, not knowing that one day I would wake up thinking they fed me poison.
When I sat on the toilet and blood left me instead of the yellow urine I was expecting, I was sure my heart stopped beating and I died for about a minute. But then I had to come alive again and flush the toilet, the red fat globs swirling down, down, down, into the dark hole, along with the beliefs I once held so close to me. I tore off the cross I had in a chain around my neck since I was a baby and held back my blinding hot tears. I would not cry. I won’t allow it. Conflicting emotions took over me once again, but this time focused on only one. I was angry. I threw the cross on the tiled floor and stepped on it repeatedly, until I couldn’t stomp on it anymore, due to the extreme amount of blood still rushing out of me. I felt dizzy at the sight of all the red. I lost my baby. I lost MY BABY. I looked at the crucifix disdainfully, Jesus’ tiny body covered with tiny hand-carved gashes and tiny painted blood spilling out of them. Quickly, I made my decision. I stood up, wiped up the blood until all nine towels were soaked crimson, hardened my heart and wiped my tears.
“Jesus bled so you won’t have to,” a sister had said in a voice so sickly sweet, smiling one of her sister smiles.
What bullshit.
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