March Submission - Relief (TIED FOR FIRST)

I knew had to find it before anyone else did.

No one could know about the panic attack I had in the bathroom. No one could know about the moment my eyes widened at the two pink stripes. No one could know that the pink lines clattered onto the white tile as I cowered against the wall. No one could know that I picked that shit up and hurled it out the window, where it buried itself in the thorns of Mom’s rose bushes. No one could know that I googled a list of clinics the next day. No one could know that I found one nearby. No one could know I scheduled the procedure.

       I knew I had to find it before anyone found out that I was carrying something inside of me, and I was taking that parasite out of my body.

       “Carrie?” Mrs. Monroe pulled me out of my thoughts with her voice.

“I’m here,” I stammered quickly as I looked around the room. The walls were splattered with a dull gray color; it made me dizzy. Maybe a side effect? A picture of Mrs. Monroe and her husband was nailed in with a wooden frame. He sat on a marble bench drenched in sunlight, not in a poetic way, rather, in a way that was an annoyance. She sat next to him, laughing whilst he sported a massive grin.

       “That’s Kurt,” Mrs. Monroe said, smiling. “Met him in 2007, he’s been my pride and joy ever since.”

       I didn’t respond. I simply stared at a loose thread dangling from sleeve of her jacket.

       Mrs. Monroe’s expression changed into something more stern. “I’m gonna ask you some questions,” she explained. “I need you to answer them honestly.”

       “Okay,” I said quietly.

“Promise you’ll tell the truth?” She leaned in closer.

       “Promise,” I replied, sighing.

“I want you to know that this is your choice. You can choose to continue and leave, or end it right here. I harbor no judgment either way; I’ve seen many women do both.”

       I just simply stared and nodded.

“Okay, first question,” Mrs. Monroe leaned back in her chair. “Is anyone forcing you to do this? Is this 100% your decision? No outside influences?”

       “No,” I replied truthfully. “My choice couldn’t be more independent.”

“Good,” Mrs. Monroe smiled and jotted down my answer in her notebook. “Does your family know?”

       “No,” I answered, before she finished.

She looked me in the eyes. “Why? Are they religious?”

       “Very,” I replied, gazing at the indigo-carpeted floor.

Mrs. Monroe nodded. “I understand. Countless other girls have told me the exact same thing; you’re not alone,” she continued to scribble in her notebook.

I gazed around the room. It was quiet except for the sound of the air conditioner and the ticking of the clock, inches away from the six. Mrs. Monroe had a cross hanging on the wall next to her master’s degree in psychology. How ironic to have a symbol of religion at such a place.

“What about the father?” Mrs. Monroe asked. “Does he know?”

I jolted upright. Derek. Derek James Trimwood. Nineteen-years-old, communications major, 3.9 GPA, super annoying voice, but a strong jawline that could seize someone’s heart in seconds. He drove a 1992 Ford Mustang. The interior smelled like sweat mixed with fast food. His father gave it to him. He would drive it around at midnight and catcall

a girl walking home from work.

Derek would take her home in his Mustang. He would laugh at her reaction to the scent. He would show her his cheap but super clean apartment. He’d tell her she’s beautiful, but she’d be more beautiful without her shirt on. She would take it off, he would take his off. He’d scoop her up and carry her to his room, where he’d give her the best satisfaction a man could give a woman. If she asked him to stop, he would instantly. He’d ask her if she was okay enough to continue. If she said no, he would give her a ride home. I don’t know what would happen if she said yes.

“No,” I answered. “He does not,”

Mrs. Monroe didn’t jot in her notebook. “He didn’t-“

       “No,” I answered. “When I asked him to stop he did and asked me if I was okay; I said no, so he apologized and took me home.”

       “Sounds like a nice man. We need more like him,” Mrs. Monroe smiled as she jotted down in her notebook. “Why didn’t you tell him though?”

       “I don’t know where he is,” I sighed.

“One-night stand?” She asked.

       “Pretty much. He had no condoms and I was off birth control. I shouldn’t have been surprised,” I answered.

       “Well, we all learn lessons in life,” Mrs. Monroe said, turning a page in her notebook.

The rest of the questions were medical jargon. She wanted to make sure my body could handle the procedure. It could, but I couldn’t; but I still knew I had to do this.

       “That’s all I need to know. So you’re doing this?” She smiled.

“Yes, for sure,” I answered, twiddling my thumbs.

       “Very well. I wish you the best. You may go,” she said as I got up from my chair.

“Thank you,” I walked towards the door.

       “Can you do me a favor? I need Marisol Ramirez in here next,” she beamed.

Marisol Ramirez was sobbing as she entered the room with the picture of Mrs. Monroe and her grinning husband.

       ---

I pulled the baby-blue curtain open. I was wearing a white hospital gown. My clothes were in a locker, the next time I’d wear them I’d only be one person.

       “Carrie Waddington?” A plump nurse called my name.

“That’s me,” I turned around.

       The nurse smiled. “I’m Emma. I’m taking you in for your ultrasound.”

“Ultrasound?” I asked, puzzled. “Why do I have to have an ultrasound?”

       Emma frowned. “Sorry, it’s the law,” she gestured for me to follow her into a room where she did the preparations.

I ignored the cold feeling on my belly as Emma slid the scanner through the goo. The “baby” was miniscule. It looked like a deformed rat.

       Emma removed the scanner, and the rat flashed off from the monitor. She asked me if I wanted pictures of the “baby” printed. I said no. She said that was fine.

       I was then led to a hospital bed and given an IV along with ten other girls. We remained quiet. This was no place for small talk; we all knew why we were here. The only sound I heard was the teenage girl next to me weeping.

       One-by-one, they pulled us in. Every five minutes they’d take in a new female. Some walked through the door with confidence, others stumbled through with sorrow.

       The teenage girl next to me had to have two nurses help her. She couldn’t walk. I don’t know if it was the IV drugs or if she was just terrified. Maybe she was having second thoughts? I doubt it. She didn’t protest as the two nurses dragged her through the door.

       I was next. We were next. The second those double doors opened my heart dropped. As I got up from the bed, I realized how numb my body was from the drug. I couldn’t fathom a single prick in my body. No wonder that girl collasped.

       They led me through the door. They showed me a table. I laid down on it. They checked me to make sure I was okay before commencing the procedure. I was. They did their work.

       There was pressure. It felt like someone was gently pushing against my waist, and then they stopped. I gazed at the ceiling the entire time. One of the tiles was cracked. They need to get that fixed.

       “Honey? Can you hear me?” An elderly woman with scrubs hovered over my eyes.

       “Y-Yes,” I stammered. I still felt numb.

Her eyes lit up. “The procedure was a success. You’re perfectly fine, but I need you to not look at the table on your right okay?”

       Too late, I’d already snapped my head in that direction. My vision was hazy, but I saw a blur of blood and remains of organs. I knew what it was, who it was.

       I looked back at the elderly woman expecting her to scold me, but her eyes were still bright. “You’ll be dizzy for the next few minutes,” she explained. “We’re going to get you in a wheelchair so the next patient can come in.”

       Few minutes my ass. It took about half-an-hour for the drugs to wear off. They had me in a wheelchair the entire time. The nurse kept asking me if I was okay enough to stand up until I said yes.

       She told me I was free to go. I’d always been free.

The girls in the waiting room blankly stared at me. I had only one feeling the entire time.

       Relief.

      

WORD COUNT: Exactly 1,500.