It smells of antiseptic, all around is
white, while walls, a white door and the chair I’m currently sitting in, it’s
soft and embraces my body, a way of making me feel at ease for the event about
to take place. The cushion coating of the metal arms begins to quake and
rattle, as I realize my hands are the cause of the noise. I clench and unclench
into my palm into fists to steady myself and remain in control, but it only
worsens the chattering.
My mind goes numb and struggles to filter
thoughts. Why am I so frightened?
I made this rational decision to remove the
thing inside of me. Except it’s not a thing exactly, it’s a smaller version of
myself, a human being. I only discovered a week ago that I was pregnant, the
same day that I broke of the engagement with John.
God, I just want this out of me, so I can
continue on with my life normally and forget this ever happened. Yet I can’t
subdue the persistent stab of guilt in my stomach, slowly making its way to my
heart. Images begin to merge in my mind. I’m sitting on a sofa at home, and I’m
bouncing this giggling baby boy on my knee, his fingers are gently placed on my
forearm. He is soft and warm beneath my touch; his bottle green eyes and
caramel hair mirror my own reflection. His face could easily break a few hearts
in eighteen years.
What if I’m not a good mother? What if I
fail and he is taken away from me? The laughing turns into a high-pitch scream
as the baby tumbles off of my knees and falls with an echoing thud on the
floor. As I reach for him, he’s no longer a baby, but a ten year old. I stretch
my hands towards him, but he swipes them away. “Get away from me!” He hisses,
“You’re not my mother!”
I gasp and my mind brings me back to the
white room again. No. I must go through with this. It’s for my own good. I’m
twenty- three years old; I can’t and could never be a mother. I don’t even have
enough income; a one-year-old history graduate cannot raise a child. The worst
part is I would be raising this child alone; John made it perfectly clear he
wasn’t coming back.
Yet I couldn’t shake the child’s chubby
rose face from my thoughts.
Catherine said I was good with Anne, my niece.
Last Saturday I baby- sat for her seven year old, we had a tea party, and I
arranged all of her soft toys around the chairs of her miniature table, and
even spoke the high and low voices of each bear and rabbit. Anne looked at me
with so much joy and love, how could I kill a innocent child.
What if the baby was a girl? I would be
able to buy her beautiful coloured dresses, and get matching socks to cover her
tiny and delicate feet, each one you could fit the palm of your hand. Then when
she’s older we would travel together and go on road trips. Then in sad times I
will be there hugging her tightly, stroking her hair and blotting her tears
away when someone breaks her innocent heart.
I bent my head towards my stomach, and
said, “I love you.” Tears descended from my sparkling eyes, “I love you, and I
always will. I will never stop loving you.”
John would not be coming back, and I didn’t
want him back. Yes I would be alone in this pregnancy, but I wouldn’t be
lonely. I have my loving family to guide and support me along the way. In nine
months I would have a family of my own.
A woman entered with a clipboard in her
hand, “Sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Alison –.“ The women stopped, and looked around the white
room and saw I was nowhere to be found.
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