【Draft 2】Mirror（1）Abby

【Draft 2】Mirror（1）Abby

I’ve been called many different things since I was a child, mostly offensive, but meaningless to me by now. But since Chase and I start dating a year ago, the names are getting more creative, my favorite one being “Ghost and the Lamp post”, which has a nice ring to it and oddly romantic. What I don’t like, is that people think I don’t deserve him, or anyone.

“That guy told the nurse he was her boyfriend? Get out of here!” A girl bursts out laughing in a high-pitched voice.

“Shhhhh...she’s right behind that curtain!” Another girl says, lowering her volume.

The bitch snorts, “No, the guy is a human chopstick, not too bad looking, I’ll give you that. But she’s basically a lab rat gone wrong. He’s got to be blind to date that freak. I bet he’s just trying to get into her pants.”

My eyes flutter open, and I wake to this hateful conversation. I snap my eyes shut before squinting to look through my finger slits. which doesn’t help much. The blazing florenscent lights has already blacked out my vision, making my eyes water. No, those are not tears of anger, or sadness. On a scale of one to ten, one being the least ugly and ten being the most nasty, the bitch’s comment ranks about 4. The days of crying over mean names are long gone. Photosensitivity hurts me more.

I roll to the right, push one elbow into the bed, and get into a sitting position. A faint smell of disinfectant greets me with a mixture of alcohol and bleach. I shake my head, trying to recall what happened and where I am. I am not even sure if I hear that earlier conversation correctly.

Oh. Holy crap.

I was in a clinic or urgent care center of some sort, waiting to be seen for a terrible cramp. A cramp in the middle of the second time Chase and I had sex!

I bang my head on the wall, and groan. I’ll never live this down. Now is the most appropriate time to transport into an alternate universe. No, scratch that. I want to be sucked into an anime movie or video game like I’ve been fantasizing since I was a little kid. Those seem to be the only two places where people with crazy hair and eye color make sense beyond my reality. Or, if that’s too much to wish for, I can dye every part of my body and start a new life. A girl can dream.

I lick my dry lips, and notice a metallic taste in my mouth. Oh, I think I bit the inside of my cheek too, and a little bit of the tongue.

Great.

It seems like the murderer has finally decided to leave me alone though, thank god. Keeping my eyes shut, I call out in a low voice, “Chase!”

No one answers.

“Chase! Where are you?” I call again, a covering my eyes with my hands for a peep through the fingers.

Still nothing.

Wasn’t he with me in the waiting room after he took me here? Why? Why is he not here?

I fumble for my phone, finding nothing but a thin sheet of blanket. Sitting on the bed, I contemplate the success rate of finding him with my eyes shut. Someone nearby can tell me if I shout, of course, but I don’t want to catch anyone else’s attention yet, not until Chase gives me an update on what’s happened while I was unconscious. I feel fine, and what’s the worst that’s gonna happen? If I get a concussion tripping over something in the process, I am pretty sure more than one person is capable of bandaging me up in an emergency room.

Without giving it any further thought, I yank off the sheet and hop off the bed, when I feel a pull on my wrist. My heart almost jumps out of my mouth as I get hit by something hard. First on the head, then the shoulder, and finally lands next on the back of my hand.

It’s a cold stick. No, a metal pole. The end of a tiny plastic tube falling with it is taped to the inside of my right wrist. An IV tube.

Great, now I am tied to a bag of fluid like a prisoner chained to an iron ball.

Soft footsteps approach, accompanied  by some low chattering of two female voices. With one hand carefully holding the IV pole, I sit back as quietly as I can manage, and listen.

Neither of them come any closer, but the chattering keeps on going. A little distant, but clear enough for me to make out what they are saying. We are apparently separated by some kind of barrier, like curtains. Judging from their conversation, they are nurses, but not here to check on me. Whew.

“Kids these days,” one of the nurses says, her deep voice filled with concern.

“What happened?” The other nurse asks. She sounds much younger than the first nurse. It’s not scientifically proven that there’s a link between voice and age, but my guess is usually quite accurate.

Deep voice replies, “A girl in my daughter’s school was raped and got pregnant.” She takes a sad pause before adding, “by her boyfriend.”

Young nurse gasps, “Oh my god! Is she okay?”

“I don’t know. The school sent us a note about it yesterday. The boyfriend part was a gossip my daughter heard from her friends.”

“Did She get rid of the baby?” Young nurse asks with genuine interest.

“I have no idea, but if I were her mother, I would make sure she did,” Deep Voice responses firmly, “what good is it to keep it?”

Young nurse is quiet for a couple seconds, so Deep Voice continues, “I just hope it wouldn’t happen to my daughter.”

“But she’s only 15, right? Does she have a boyfriend already?” Young nurse asks like it’s a big deal. Jesus, she couldn’t be that much older than me. Not that I have one, but these stories are all over the school yard and girls restroom. I don’t understand why she sounds so surprised.

Another pause, followed by a heavy sigh. That’s a yes then.

“Nothing serious, I hope. There’s not much I can do to stop her. She wouldn’t listen to me anyway. And age doesn’t matter either. It’s not like abusive guys would tattoo the word ‘rapist’ or “sadist” on their forehead. You just don’t know what happens behind your back.”

I feel sick. The thought of what this girl is going through right now makes my chest ache. Literally. But I can’t call the nurses. The reason for this trip is mortifying as it is. I don’t think I am ready to take any questions yet.

Why isn’t Chase here yet? God, I hate asking for help, but it’d be nice to wake up with him holding my hands like in romance the movies.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of curtains sliding open. Someone slips inside, and closes the curtains swiftly.

“Abby!”

It’s Chase. “Thank god you are okay. You scared the shit of out me! Wait, let me get the nurse.”

He rushes out before giving me a chance to respond. 30 seconds later, the curtains slide open again, bringing with it a breath of air that does nothing to cool my agitation.

“Why are you holding a pole?” Chase asks, amused. Two short steps later, the pole is taken off my hand. Next, a pair of glasses is carefully slipped on my nose, giving my eyes instant relieve.

“There you go,” Chase says softly, his face a shaky figure hovering over me. He tucks a couple loose strands of hair behind my ears before slowly backing away. The wobbly image makes it hard to gauge if he’s trying to run away, or just giving me breathing room. Damn my bad depth perception.

“Are you feeling any better?” He asks, his voice only a couple feet away. So he’s not leaving just yet then.

I shake my head, messing up the hair he just fixed.

“I am half dead, but still alive. Where have you been?” I ask, exasperated.

Realizing I am not in pain, he sounds instantly relaxed as he explains, “I went to fill out some check-in forms. Jesus, the form goes on forever like an exam. Your health history, medication, allergy, and your freaking mensural period.”

Okay, that makes sense. “How do you know all that stuff?” I am genuinely curious, especially about the last question.

There’s proud in his voice when he answers, “I have an excellent memory when it comes to everything about you.”

I bite my lip to hold back a smile.

“Fine,” I approve, more satisfied, “but you could’ve come back sooner.”

“Sorry,” he says with a chuckle. Just as I think he’s taking a moment to crack a joke, he inches closer and picks up my hand, but drops them just as quickly. Before I can ask him why, my cheeks are cupped gently in his palms. He takes a long breath, bends down, then presses his forehead to mine.

My anger meter goes into a nosedive. Darn it, I am defenseless against his touch. And his scent. I know it’s just Wintermint Trident and Tide, but the combination on him is irresistible.

Pressing my hand over his heart, I inhale deeply and close my eyes, enjoying this intimate moment as I recall the kisses we shared earlier, and all the places I want him to touch me again, all the while waiting for his next move. A kiss, a good one I hope, is all I need to forgive him for getting us into this mess. His heart beats are calm and steady, the opposite of the hard pounding in my chest:

A couple seconds pass. Chase pulls back, and announces after a long sigh of relief, “Good, you don’t have a fever.”

“What?” I ask in confusion.

“The forehead check. It’s a quick way to check your temperature without a thermometer. My sister used to get sick a lot, so my mom taught me in case she had a fever when mom was away. It really works.”

Oh. So those dirty thoughts are all in MY head. I peel his hands off my face and press my lips together, agitated.

“Something wrong? Are you okay?” he asks, tension returning to his voice in a split second.

“No, I am pissed!” I scowl, “look at what  a mess you got us into! I couldn’t have done anything wrong lying there like a starfish. It had to be you!”

“No!” Chase tries to argue, but comes up with nothing.

“I was expecting an org...” The last two syllables of the “O” word is chopped off as my face starts to heat up, but I manage to finish the sentence, “...not excruciating pain! How would you feel if your guts get turned upside down when someone sticks his......” I lower my voice, pointing at the lower half of his torso angrily with my restrained hand while reaching out the free hand to grab him. My nails may not be sharp enough to cut through denim, but I can do a mean pinch.

It doesn’t surprise me when he easily makes an escape, gliding away on a rolling chair with a light push on the edge of the bed. I grab the pillow behind me and throw at the direction where the chair rolls away, before I hear the curtains sliding open again, the pillow falling to the floor with an almost inaudible plop.

I freeze at the interruption and, judging from the stillness on Chase’s end, so does he.

Someone walks in, a person dressed in white on top and black at the bottom. He stops at the end of my bed, waiting.

I quickly resume my pre-pillow fight position, straightening my back like a lady. Chase takes a couple quick strides towards me and puts his arm on my shoulder. I don’t need his verbal confirmation that he’s right there for me. I swallow hard, and give his hand an assuring pat as I focus on the black and white man. I’ve got this.

“Ahem,” The intruder, assumably a doctor or nurse in white scrub, clears his throat before introducing himself, “hi Abby. I am Dr. Morris. How are you feeling?”

I answer with an awkward smile, “Much better now.”

“What about the pain?” Dr. Morris asks in a flat voice as he makes a choppy, scratching sound that most likely comes from his pen writing on a clipboard.

Just to make sure, I press my lower abdomen before I offer, “It’s gone now. Is there something wrong with me?  It hurt really bad.”

“We don’t know yet,” he replies, and resumes the cross-examination, “are you on your menstrual period, or have any bleeding?”

“No.” I say, a little too quickly.  Seriously, this wouldn’t have happened in the first place if I were.

More pen scratching.

“Have you had similar cramps before?”

“No,” I shake my head to emphasize this time, “my cramps are pretty mild.”

“Um, interesting.” He drawls each syllable meaningfully.

The scratching is now replaced by rhythmical tapping, like a time bomb counting down before it goes off, each knock pushing me closer to the explosion. I listen to him intensely, every muscle in my body tightening as I try to sense if he’s giving off any negative vibe. I’d like to think it’s a super power I’ve been given to replace the sense I barely have. Right now, it’s telling me I wouldn’t like what he’s going to throw at me.

Dr. Morris’ pen takes a brief break before he pops an alarming question, “Are you sexually active?”

Caught off guard, my face heats up in a flash. It’s got to be the color of a boiled tomato now. This is why I hate my pale complexion. I can literally go from pink to red in a split second when I blush.

“I, I, um...” I stammer, unsure how to respond. Honestly, it’s hard to give a simple yes or no answer. Does “active” mean having had sex, having regular sex, or having it frequently? We were working on our second before the cramp, so the answer will really depend on his definition.

Chase comes to my rescue, “We’ve had sex twice.” Oh, so he’s giving the doctor the facts then. There’s a brief pause before he amends his statement, “I am not sure if this one counts, because we’ve just started.”

“You said that was the second time. How long ago was the first time?” Dr. Morris asks.

“About six weeks.” I supply, trying to be helpful this time.

“Did you use any contraceptive the first time?”

Oh, I am absolutely not going to take this one. A couple seconds tick by in silence before Chase replies, “Yes, we did. But...but it broke.”

Dr. Morris doesn’t say anything. The scratching continues for what feels like half of a minute, until he finally drops the ticking bomb, “It’s very likely that the cramp was caused by a miscarriage.”

“WHAT?” Chase and I both shriek.

“Severe cramps can be a sign of a miscarriage, even if there’s no bleeding.” Dr. Morris explains like he’s reciting a paragraph in his medical textbook.

“No, I am not pregnant!” I protest, grabbing Chase by the arm for support, “how is this possible? The condom broke halfway so he pulled out!”

“Theoretically speaking, the chance of getting pregnant using the withdrawal method is 4%, IF done correctly.  But in actuality, it fails 22 times out of 100.” He states matter-of-factly. The ensuing silence sends a loud, clear message: Even experienced grown-ups would screw this up, how do you kids know how to do it right?

Dr. Morris clears his throat, again, before he fires the second round of questions, “When was the first day of your last period?”

I turn to Chase for my phone where I catalogue all my personal activities, “Chase, can you get me my...”

He cuts me off, “June 1st.”

My eyes widen. How does he know the exact date? While I don’t mind sharing my life with him, remembering so much detail is overkill. Should I call him an attentive boyfriend, or a possessive creep?

More scratching. “Was the flow similar to your regular period, Abby?” Dr. Morris asks.

This question must be directed to me. I pick up a strand of hair and start twirling it as I rack my brain. Now that I think of it, the period WAS shorter and lighter than usual, three Tampons instead of the normal 11.

“No.” I whisper, my heart rate picking up the pace like a train gaining speed on a bridge. A broken bride.

This is bad, as in I-have-never-been-so-scared kind of bad.

The tapping on the clipboard returns as Dr. Morris explains, “If you were indeed pregnant, that could be spotting, which is not uncommon in this early stage.”

My heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach. Well, more like on my lap, because I am still sitting on a bed. Holy hell, is he serious?

Ever so gently, I place my hand on my abdomen. It’s soft, more jiggly than I like it to be, but the belly fat has been there forever and definitely not the sign of a baby bump. So if Dr. Morris is serious, it means...there could be a tiny baby growing inside of me, right this moment?

The idea makes me want to throw up, but I remind myself that if I did, that’d just be another proof of my current “condition”.

“Of course, we don’t know for sure until we run some tests.” Dr. Morris gives a nurse some instructions I don't pretend to understand, then leaves with a wisp of cold air.

The dead silence is sucking the oxgent out of my lungs in the confined space. I try to process the information, but my brain returns only one answer—

No, no, no, no, no, no, no...

I can’t be pregnant.

I don’t want any kids, ever.

I can’t, and I won’t, bring a new life to this world knowing what’s like to be me.

It’s taken the first 15 years of my life to figure out how to cope with bullying and insults, in school and out. Sure my parents love me in every way that matters, but life in general is still tough. Tougher, at least, compared to normal kids. Scientifically speaking, the probability is low for this baby to be a “freak” like me, unless the father carries the same abnormal gene in his X chromosome. The problem is that I can’t expect Chase, or any guy I may have a chance to encounter for that matter, to give me a DNA analysis. It’s not the kind of information normal people exchange in a relationship.

So yeah, that’s an absolute no.

What scares me now, is what would happen to us if I AM indeed pregnant. Before this stupid accident, I feel like the luckiest girl in the world. Chase sees me beyond what meets the eye, I can feel it in my bones. Although he’s not considered anything close to popular from what I hear, he cares about me enough to make me believe a love relationship is a genuine possibility for me, no matter how short it lasts.

“Love dies when voluntary becomes obligatory.” I am a firm believer of this theory, and have been preparing myself to walk away before the relationship goes into “obligatory” mode. Once a baby comes in the picture, however, he’d be stuck with me. It’s like the difference between a temporary tattoo that washes off in a week or two, and an inked tattoo he can’t easily remove without going through a painful procedure. Trapping him this way is unfair, and the last thing I want to do to him. Now the question is—Does he feel the same?

What if he still wants me, but not the baby?

What if he makes me get rid of the baby?

What if I die from the abortion procedure?

What if he doesn’t want the baby but I do and then I end up miscarrying anyway?

What if he wants the baby too but it dies after birth?

An intense wave of fear washes over me as I murmur to myself. I am dry drowning in the terrifying thoughts of death, gulping for air while more fear fills my lungs. Sweat pours down my forehead, dampening the tank top underneath the Giant's sweatshirt Chase puts on me. I want to yank it off, but my hands are too shaky to do the job right.

“Abby, are you okay?” Chase’s figure bends over, his eyes an inches away from mine, two sapphire gemstones in the darkest shade of blue. His voice is low, worried, but I am too far gone to appreciate his concern.

No, I am not okay. I am the opposite of okay. I need a cold shower, or an iced lemonade mom makes. I roll to the other side of the bed, the pole holding the stupid IV bag tipping over with a loud clatter. I peel the tape on the back of my hand and pull out the needle. It doesn’t even sting.

And then, I bolt out of the room.

【Draft 2】Mirror（2）Chase