My Aborted Child (Rewritten)

My Aborted Child

Twenty years ago, I was just starting seventh grade. I was around thirteen, I believe, and my female classmates’ youthful feminism was just beginning to bud. I, on the other hand, was unlucky; though I thought otherwise at the time. You see, I was much more physically mature, in the feminine aspect, than most of my female peers. Mother Nature had bestowed her gift upon me at an early age-around ten, if my memory serves correct-and my breast had grown fairly quickly since then. My friends and I would sit in a circle on the floor of my bedroom during a sleepover and giggle about it, being careful as to not alert my parents-particularly my father. Thinking, in my naivety, that being blessed with this rapid maturity set me above my peers, I began to act more supercilious and arrogant. All of the girls in my grade idolized me, and I quickly learned how to use this to my advantage. I slowly started to morph from an innocent little girl into a deceptive brat, and I knew I was no angel, so what happened to me really shouldn’t have been all that much of a surprise.

The events leading up to the act that ruined me were innocent enough, but still not completely innocent. My best friend, Lillie, the one who was always loyal to me no matter how cruel I was to her, invited me to a family reunion. I didn’t want to go in the first place. I had no interest in standing around all day with a fake smile, exchanging fake pleasantries to people I didn’t know, and to be frank, quite honestly didn’t care to know. Such things were just not my forte. But it somehow got around to my mother, and being the overly affable person that she was, she forced me to go. For a while after the reunion I was glad she had, but later, I hated her for it. While at the jovial little get-together, I met the person that would both bring me more happiness than I could describe and cause me more pain than anyone else in my existence. Lillie had brought him up to me to introduce us. I thought she was just hoping to appease me; I was still irked at her for ruining my Sunday.

“Catherine,” She had said, “This is my cousin, Michael. He’s seventeen.”

I wasn’t looking at them when she said this. I turned, intending to make a sharp remark, but when I saw him, the words caught in my throat. I looked up into the boy’s-no, the man’s face, and the first word that fermented in my mind was gorgeous. And gorgeous he was. He was tall-taller than average, but not lanky. I could clearly make out the profusely defined muscles of his arms, even beneath his black, long sleeved shirt. I imagined him having abs, though I couldn’t tell, for his shirt was not fitted tightly enough around his midsection for me to see the hard muscles that undoubtedly lined his torso. His hair was a unique shade of strawberry blonde. It was cut short, but still long enough for me to run my fingers through, and I could feel the softness of it just by looking. His eyes though, were his most striking feature. They were a vibrant emerald green that seemed to only accentuate his handsomeness. I remember absently wondering if he wore some kind of colored contacts. I later found out that he didn’t.

He must have noticed me staring (and probably knew what I was thinking) because he smirked. It was more of a leer, really, but at the time I was too stupid and naive (and pleasantly distracted) to notice. Then he chuckled. It was a deep, melodic sound that caused my entire body to heat up. I could feel the blush creeping up cheeks and the back of my neck and I quickly looked away. He must have noticed this as well, because he laughed again and said arrogantly,

"Don’t be afraid to look, beautiful. I’m not shy.”

Under normal circumstances, I would have gotten angry and stomped off. I was already embarrassed from blushing, which did not happen a lot at all, I assure you. That, plus the cliché pickup line should have been enough to send me over the edge, but for some reason, I found myself unable to be mad at him. He was different; more confident, if you will, and I decided I liked him.

Michael and I started seeing each other after that; in secret, of course. We would meet up at any place we could, whether it be at a friends house, McDonalds, or anywhere. We always found a spot to meet. We never met up at the same place twice in a row in order to keep people, (especially my father) unsuspicious.

When Michael and I got together for one of our little meetings, we did little more than just make out. There was occasional groping, but such is to be expected from such activities. I never let him go farther than that, though. Every time he would snake his hand up my shirt and start tampering with my bra clasp, I would stop him, and that would be the end of it. I hadn’t been ready for sex just yet, but if Michael had just been a little more patient, I probably wouldn’t have lasted much longer.

He seemed very understanding at first. I would explain why I wasn’t ready yet and he would listen with a companionate look on his face. So, I trusted that he would never try to force it. But eventually, his patience started to wear down. The mask he had been putting on so carefully was wearing away, and for the first time, I saw the real Michael.

I can recall every detail of the night he raped me. That awful, horrid night he stole my innocence. It started out the same way it always did when we met up. We made out for a bit, then he tried to put his hand up my shirt. This time, when I tried to stop him, he got mad. Those vibrant eyes I loved so much clouded over with a scary expression I had never seen on anyone’s face before, and one I hope to never see again. I tried to stop him. I screamed and begged and bit and punched and kicked, but everything I tried only served to excite him more, and tire me out. I tried. Oh, I tried. But, ultimately, there was nothing I could do.

He made a quick job of it, at least. It was over in a matter of minutes, but to me it dragged on and on. When he was finished, he got up and left. He just left. Like it was a normal, routine activity that required no special attention. It wasn’t as if I wanted him to stay, though, anyway. I wanted him to get as far from me as humanly possible. It was just, I couldn’t fathom how someone could care so little about a fellow human being. But like I said, I wanted him gone, so I made no move to stop him when he left.

At first, I wasn’t planning on telling anyone. I was just going to keep it to myself and hopefully no one would ever hurt me again. But eventually, I broke down and told Lillie, who relayed it back to my parents. It goes without saying that my parents were mad. My mother cried for days. She just held me close to her and cried. My father however, was different. He didn’t cry, though I could tell he wanted to. What he did do, was storm out of the house, grabbing his state issued gun along the way. I didn’t think he would do anything drastic. Apparently neither did my mother, because when he left the house, neither of us made any move to stop him.

I realize now that the phone call my mother got telling us that my father had been arrested for shooting Michael point-blank shouldn’t have surprised us. He had always been a protective father, but I never knew the lengths he would go for me until the day he shot my rapist. The trial was hard on me and my mother, and my father too, I imagine. I remember looking over at the jury often. Their cool indifferent stares cut me to the core. Did they not care about my situation at all? Could they not see things from my father’s perspective, or mine? Apparently not, because after a month long trial, my poor father was sentenced to 20 years prison with no chance for parole until half of his sentence was served. He did, however, end up getting released early due to a need for space and good behavior.

I decided, two weeks after the rape, to take a pregnancy test. I had my mother pick one up for me. It was the first one I had ever seen before, and I was a little confused on how to use it, but the directions on the box were enough to help me figure it out, and I certainly wasn’t going to ask my mother for help. My hands were shaking so badly, I could hardly open the box. In the minutes after taking the test, I was nervous and fidgety. It was a moment that would either ruin my life or make it that much easier. So, needless to say, I was happy when it came back negative. However, in the following weeks, I started to show signs of pregnancy: morning sickness, swollen feet, fatigue. The whole nine yards. I took another pregnancy test, and this one came back positive.

When I saw the little happy face pop up on the screen, a wave of emotion overwhelmed me. I felt my face heat up in rage. It was as if it was taunting me. My life was ruined and the stupid piece of plastic had the audacity to smile at me. My mind clouded over as a threw the test at the wall, causing the screen to crack. Tears sprung to my eyes and a scream of rage ripped through my throat as another wave of anger washed over me. I picked up the closest object I could find, which happened to be a glass cup used to hold our toothbrushes, and threw it at the wall, the jagged shards falling around the now broken pregnancy test.

It wasn’t hard for me to decide to get an abortion. Actually, for me, it was the only option. I was still getting over the rape, and having to carry around the product of it would only cause it to be a more arduous process. I also knew that I wouldn’t have made a half way decent mother to it. That child was not conceived out of love; it was made by a cruel and abominable act, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to look at it without hatred, especially if it looked like Michael.

Most people were supportive of my decision, saying they would do the same in my shoes. My mother however, was furious when I told her of my decision. She had never believed in abortion, and felt I had no right to kill the fetus. She asked me why I wouldn’t just have the child and give it up for adoption. I told her I wouldn’t be forced to carry around that monster’s spawn for nine months. I refused. It would be too hard; I would loose whatever sanity I was still able to cling to. My mother and I fought about it for a while, but we were short on time to decide, soon the fetus would have been too far developed to abort. So, eventually, my mother broke down and agreed to take me to an abortion clinic, but she made it palpable that she was disappointed in me. I didn’t care much; I was the one that was thirteen and pregnant, not her. Though I couldn’t help but feel betrayed that she refused to be supportive. It was a hard time for me and with my father on trial, she was the one I needed the most support from, but she refused to give it to me. I resented her for this, and made no attempt to keep it a secret. She made no attempt to hide how she resented me, often giving me a strange, impassive look if I ever tried to reach out to her. Our relationship never completely healed.

Twelve years after the abortion, I married a wonderful man-a man that didn’t judge me for the decision I had made years ago. James was an understanding person. He listened to me and agreed with the decision I made. You see, his sister had been raped at well, and he said if she had gotten pregnant, he would have supported her if she had decided to abort. I was grateful that James was not among the few who scrutinized me for getting an abortion. He didn’t look away and quickly excuse himself when I told him, he didn’t get uncomfortable, and he didn’t treat me like I was a bad person.

We were married for about two years when I got pregnant. This time I didn’t go into a fit of rage. I didn’t feel like my world was sinking in on itself. This time, I was happy. Though I hadn’t planned on a child and never thought I would particularly want one, I was able to find happiness in the fact that I would carry and birth a baby created out of love. It was a joyous situation for both me and my husband. Our families were happy for us; my mother included. When I first told her I was pregnant, I could tell by the look on her face she was worried I would get another abortion, but I quickly reassured her. This time, she would have her way, and I would have mine.

In the month of May, about thirty-five weeks after conceiving, we were on our way to the hospital to give birth to our baby. The labor was long and hard, but it wasn’t as long as it could have been. I was only in labor for five hours, whereas my sister-in-law was in labor for thirteen when she gave birth to my niece. Regardless, it was long. Intense pain tore through my body, and it felt as if someone was beating my lower back with a hammer over and over and over. I was drenched in sweat, causing my hair to cling to my face and neck in an unsightly manner. I threw up a couple of times, the acid stinging my throat. When there was nothing left to come up, I began to dry heave. By the time common sense set in, it was too late for me to take the epidural. I was forced to sit back and endure the miracle of child birth.

My son was quite a chubby baby. He weighed eight pounds, seven ounces. Even now, I can’t understand how something so large had managed to squeeze it’s self through such a small opening. But I was able to understand why it hurt so much, at least. James and I had decided on the name Elliot for our son. I myself was not a fan of the name, but James had wanted to name his first born after his grandfather, who had died of cancer the year before, so I let it go as to not hurt James’ feelings. The person I had become since the rape was a far cry than what I had been before.

Little Elliot had a head full of dark hair, and even though his face was flushed red and scrunched up, slightly reminiscent of a prune, I thought he was the most adorable thing in the world. I remember being alone in the hospital room, holding Elliot close to my chest a few hours after he was born. His tiny fist was clutching my finger in an iron grip. I remember thinking that he had a strong grip for something his size, and I absently wondered if the child I had aborted would have had one as well. I was surprised at myself for thinking it, because that was the first time I had thought of the abortion for a while. I mentally shook myself and looked back at the sleeping child in my arms. That was all I thought of the abortion for the rest of the night.

The morning after Elliot’s birth was a happy one for James and me. We were exceedingly eager to get Elliot home and start raising him. But the outside weather was contrary to our cheerful mood. It was pouring-hard. The windshield wipers may as well have been non-existent; it would have made no difference. Every time the wipers would wipe away one sheet of rain, another sheet would immediately take it’s place. It was already a dangerous situation, but it was made even more dangerous when and inept moron driving a pickup truck with two busted headlights decided to get on the road. We were turning into our subdivision when said inept moron was driving down the road. Since he didn’t have working headlights, and it was too hard to see anything anyway, James didn’t see him coming, and neither did I.

The damage was…horrendous. Our car flipped thrice before it finally landed on it’s side and stopped. James and I were in intensive care for months, but we eventually made it out fine. Well, physically, we were fine. My baby wasn’t so lucky. The impact was too much for his little body to take. He died on impact. At least he didn’t suffer, I told myself, but God, I wish it had been me.

The months following Elliot’s death were insufferable for me. I became depressed quickly. I was falling apart from the inside out, and no one knew what to do about it. I only ate when I was forced to. I said, on average, maybe ten words a day, if even that. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was in constant emotional pain. It hurt to eat, it hurt to think, it hurt to breath, it hurt to live. What I had felt after being raped was nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to what it felt to loose a child.

One day, I went to my mother, looking for solace, looking for consolation. I asked her why this was happening to me. It was a stupid question; I realized that before it had even finished leaving my lips, but at the time, I just needed her to tell me everything would get better. She looked at me straight in the eyes with that same impassive look she had given me years and years ago. My mother, who had given birth to me, cared for me, raised me, and loved me, looked at me in my time of need and said, “Why, you’re paying the price for your aborted child.” That was what broke me. Deep down, even though I knew she was wrong and spiteful, I couldn’t help but agree with her.