I Remember

Author’s Note: Before you begin reading this story, I want to let you know that this story does address some “hot button” issues. While I may not agree with the term, I feel that a warning is necessary. This piece discusses bisexuality, pre-marital sex, and abortion. It is a fiction piece, written originally for the Creative Writing Specialization course on plot. The assignment was to craft a story in which a character was faced with a terrible hardship and show how they overcame it. I urge you to only read this piece if you feel that it will not cause you emotional distress. Thank you. Please Read & Enjoy.


 

Nadine,

I remember how heavy that stick felt in my hands, painful awareness having washed over my entire body. Even now, ten years later, the broken pieces of that memory are hard to swallow. Those five minutes seemed to move so slowly that time almost went backwards. Misery dripped from every pore in my body as I sat hunched over and pressed against the side of the bathtub. My head ached from grinding my teeth. The wait was unbearable.

But I also remember how you were in the dorm room next to mine, and how you promised that you were only a text away if I needed you. I didn’t have to tell you I was taking a pregnancy test that afternoon because you knew. Our cycles overlapped and when I missed mine, it was obvious. All of it was made more stressful by the fact that I’d broken up with my boyfriend three weeks before then. You didn’t want to suffocate me because you knew I could do it all on my own.

I kept a picture of you on my phone. One of the first times you’d stayed overnight in my dorm when we watched that B-rate horror movie about the ghostly puffer fish haunting the aquarium. I took a picture of you furiously typing your review as you insulted the terrible acting and cheesy dialogue. You were so beautiful. Even though you hated the picture because the computer made you look so pale and sickly, I loved it because your eyes showed how passionate and focused you are – and, damn, you look good when you’re working.

I remember how, at least at the time, I thought you were just a temporary muse. I’d never dated a woman before and I’d just come out of a relationship with a guy who I’d only dated because of our physical attraction to each other. It wasn’t fair to you but things worked for us, I think, and it never came up about what we were or weren’t supposed to be. It was great. There was no pressure to identify myself as bisexual, but there was no restriction to how we’d spend our time together. I’m glad that that never changed.

The pregnancy test revealed a second line that night. I couldn’t even form a full message on my phone. I could only manage a letter or two but you understood what that meant. You had been waiting outside my dorm and burst in the second you got the message. I was already doubled over, crying into my nasty bathroom rug, which you never made a joke about even though it would’ve been so easy to do. As my body shook, you held me and told me that you’d be there no matter what I needed from you… which made me cry more because I didn’t feel like I deserved it.

When I calmed down, you reminded me that I could call Bradley about the pregnancy only if I wanted. He was the other biological half of the cells clustered in my womb. Careful not to use words like ‘mother’ and ‘father’ when addressing what I should do next, I was mostly glad you didn’t ever once call it a ‘baby.’

I never did call Bradley, either, because it wasn’t his body so it wasn’t his business. If he wanted a child, and I doubted he did with the way he partied, then he could figure that out with someone who wanted that kind of life. As for me, there’s no way that I was ready to be responsible for another person’s life.

I knew I wanted an abortion but I never got the courage to call a doctor for an appointment. I skipped class for a week. I skipped practically every meal every day. I skipped showers. Somewhere in my head I’d convinced myself that poor hygiene, diet, and sleep routines would force my body to reject the pregnancy. My thinking was that if that happened, then I could pretend that I didn’t make any decisions. Thankfully, you snapped me out of my stupor by making the appointment for me and dragging me down to the office very early on a Friday morning that you should’ve been in class taking a test.

I remember how we lied about you being my stepsister, just so that the staff didn’t have to feel racist if they questioned it. Your complexion is golden and crisp, and so light compared to your perfectly flat black hair that rested on your shoulders. You haven’t kept it that long since college, have you? And then there was me, skin as dark and rich as the soil from those potted plants you keep growing on the back porch. Stepsisters. It was the only way we could convince them to let you come back with me.

They insisted on an ultrasound, and you held my hand so tight as I flinched when the cold gel hit my pelvis. They estimated that I was probably about five or six weeks, and then I was told to clean up. Very quickly we were ushered into a different room where we were sat at a desk with an obstetrician. He rattled off various options for me: low-income family programs, day care options for teen mothers, and even housing options for single mothers going to school. My jaw hung from my mouth in shock.

You shook your head. I remember it so vividly because you laughed too. There was a silent questioning but nobody spoke. That was my cue to speak up. How else would the matter get resolved if I didn’t vocalize what I’d actually gone there for? I stared into my hands and, with my quietest voice, asked: what if I want an abortion?

I swore that you were going to jump the table and punch him. He rolled his eyes and literally tossed a pamphlet at us about the dangers of an abortion, spouting off some other lazy scare tactics to make me reconsider. You flipped him off as we stood up, telling him we’d be scheduling the visit at the front desk. Honestly, I doubt he’s forgotten about it.

You made the appointment for me, again, because I could barely speak. The receptionist seemed to understand and was far less judgmental than the doctor. She even said that there was a better doctor for the procedure and scheduled us at one of the other campuses in town. You expressed your thanks, I whispered mine, and we escaped to your car as quickly as we could.

I remember how I gawked at you the whole drive back to school. You sang to your favorite songs on the radio and complained about the opinions of callers. Sometimes you’d turn the volume way down to ask me what I wanted to eat and what I wanted to do – and I just wanted to eat pizza and watch B-rate horror movies – just like we’d always done. You were so happy to oblige.

You don’t know it, but I decided in the car that day that you were much more than a muse, my first ‘girl’ fling to ease me into the true nature of my sexuality. Nobody had been kinder to me than you had, and nobody had ever put me first the way that you did – not once. Even if you didn’t love me then, I loved you. I loved you so much that when you asked me what I was thinking when we parked the car that I had to lie about what was on my mind.

I said, “a ghostly puffer fish haunting an aquarium,” with a smile.

But what I was really thinking was this:

Will you marry me, Nadine?

You see, this letter was never supposed to be about digging up old, dark memories. This was never a story about the abortion I had when I was nineteen. That was just a small event that pushed us together so that we could become the successful women we are today. This letter was all about how I knew that you were the right woman for me – the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

So – what are you thinking?

 

Love always,

Violet

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Never Stood A Chance

Author’s Note: I like to use a little website known as Coursera, auditing classes for free with my equally poor friends who love writing as much as I do. With my best friend in tow, I did 4 out of the 5 Creative Writing Specialization courses available. This is a piece I wrote for the Craft of Character course. I’ve edited it and given it a couple of polishes so that I may post and share it here today. Please read & enjoy.


Anxiety and self-doubt course through her veins, threatening to rebel against her plans. Once they arrive in the park, and she’s raced past the playground equipment, she saddles up to a group of girls she’s never met before, though she’s seen them in the past. They look awkwardly at her and smile, but he can’t see that from where he’s at in the lot, so she takes a deep breath. This is her only chance.

“I think I’m in danger and need to get to the police station. Can I join you for your run so he doesn’t try to follow me?” Really able to look them over now, she sees that they’re a bit older than her. Perhaps it will go unnoticed? She has to try and she has to hope. Thankfully, they all nod in agreement, waving lazily at the parking lot for extra measure. Turning to wave herself, she indicates that he can return in three hours with her fingers. When he starts driving off everything becomes less tense.

“What’s your name,” someone from the group asks as she bends to tighten her laces. She is more comfortable with them than she’s been at home for several days, so she doesn’t try to lie. “Kyla. My name is Kyla Walton.”

A minute or two passes by before someone questions why she needs to get to the police, what sort of danger she might be in, but Kyla has to pause and breathe before she can get the words out. “My mom has gone missing and my dad refuses to report it. I’m scared that there’s a reason he won’t make the call.”

Tears sting her eyes but she refuses to let them spill. All of the women look upon her with wide eyes, some of them not even surprised by the suggestion she’s making. Each of them were been raised to be cautious, men more their predators than the animals lurking between the trees on the trail. Kyla’s fear is understood and they agree to get her to the police station safely. It doesn’t seem as thought much time has gone by before she’s standing on the stairs – alone. Kyla didn’t want them to be seen and insisted that she get there from the trail on her own. What if her dad were following her? What if he somehow knew her intentions and had been waiting at the station?

Her mother has been missing for over a week, and her father keep saying that it’s for work. She would never need to do that, not with her current job. When she pointed this out her dad was very angry and said that he’d been hoping to wait, but that her mom took a new job. Everything about his explanations felt wrong. All Kyla wants is to know what would’ve taken her mom out of town for so long without contact. It wasn’t like she’d gone to a different country where she couldn’t contact her daughter. Knowing that everything she’s been told so far is illogical, Kyla propels herself forward and into the station.

The receptionist doesn’t looking up from her computer, simply asking what the visitor needs. Kyla figures that this woman has seen it all, heard it all, and probably can move through her office, without even opening her eyes and still do her job to perfectly. She sighs, and then states her purpose. “I would like to report a missing person.”

Proving Kyle right, the woman behind the desk doesn’t even bat an eye. “Is the missing person an adult or a minor, ma’am?”

“Adult. It’s my mom, actually. She’s been missing for, like, nine days and I don’t think I’m safe with my dad.” She knew this would grab the woman’s attention, and is comforted when the lady shifts her focus from the computer to Kyla. She can see now that this is not just another non-issue passing through. Pulling out a pen from her drawer and a file folder, she asks Kyla to wait just a moment.

Moments later, two officers come to the lobby and invite her to come back into one of their conference rooms. Soon they are seated a very large table, probably used for team meetings. “I’m Detective Thompson. In order to help you, I’m going to have to ask a few questions, okay? Do you feel comfortable doing that for me?”

Kyla tells them how old she is, fifteen, and how long her mother has been missing, eight days. They ask for her address, phone number, closest relatives besides her dad, and a variety of other information that she knows must be fore Child Protective Services. Scared as she feels, Kyla doesn’t resist. She has to be strong for her mom.

“Thank you,” Detective Thompson says very loudly, a hint of weariness in her voice. Kyla nods gently and really looks at the detective’s face. Her skin is fair, though it’s ashen somehow, as if she spends far too much time inside in the dark. Instinctively, she wonders if this woman works late nights, or even only nights. As tired as she seems, Kyla guesses that it’s just late nights and very long hours.

Then she speaks again, “We have to ask a lot of questions, okay, and I know some of them will sound offensive but we have to know. First, I need to ask questions about your mom. Is that alright with you?” Kyla doesn’t appreciate that she’s being spoken to like a very young child when she’s closer to adulthood than her toddler years. However, how often does a minor come in to report a missing parent? How often does a minor come in need of protection from his or her own parents? Kyla is sure they’ll take her seriously; in fact, she’s counting on it.

“Yes, that’s fine,” she says, preparing for the onslaught.

Do you live with just your mother? Does your father know that she is missing? Does your mother have a history of going missing? Does your mother have a history of drug or alcohol abuse? Does your mother have a history of depression? Did your mother have suicidal thoughts? Where was she working at the time of her disappearance? What was her position?

            It goes on, and on, and on, and on…

Detective Thompson wants to take a break from the questions. She says they’re tiresome and restrictive, in a way. Instead Kyla is asked to explain why she doesn’t feel safe with her dad. What makes her feel that way?

“Wouldn’t you find it really weird if someone in your family didn’t report you missing?” Kyla says, explaining that whenever she asks about where her mom has gone, all her dad says is that she’s travelling for work. “She’s never done that. She just does the cleaning for a doctor’s office. Her boss only has one practice. Why would she travel? Dad swears she has a new job but this is the only job she’s ever had. Why change it now? Why would he lie if he didn’t have a reason to?”

Detective Thompson asks Kyla to stay at the station for a few hours, if it would make her feel safer, and promises that they’ll make some calls to see if they can get more information. Is it not enough to say that she doesn’t feel safe? Kyla didn’t really think about the consequences if they decide her father is innocent.

Suddenly, the anxiety and self-doubt from barely an hour ago come flooding back through her veins again. Kyla has to sit around waiting to learn her fate. It makes her wonder if she is doing the right thing, or if she never stood a chance.